Wherever the Surge May Sweep
by Jame K
Summary: AU In a much darker Middle Earth than the one we know, Legolas sacrifices everything for Hope. Nominated in the 2007 MEFAs.
1. Wherever the Surge May Sweep

**Title: **Wherever the Surge May Sweep

**Author: **Partheon

**Rating: **PG-13 – for violence, adult themes, darkness, blood, and overall angstiness.

**Warnings: **very AU and fairly dark. And, for those who don't know, I make no promises for a happy ending. While I am not a slash writer, there are some unrequited slash issues if you really, really, really squint.

**Summary: **In a much darker Middle-earth than the one we know, Legolas is forced to take drastic measures in order to save Estel. Stretching from the destruction of Greenwood to the death of Aragorn, this sweeping AU examines what could have happened if the elves had made a terrible mistake.

**Disclaimer: **I own none of the recognizable characters in this story—they all belong to JRR Tolkien and New Line.

**Special thanks: **evil spapple pie for the idea, ThePastIsPrologue for encouragement and other help, and Black Hawk for sending me lovely emails.

**NOTE **all the names in this chapter are canon – taken directly from the appendices.

**_

* * *

_**

**_Prologue: Wherever the Surge May Sweep_**

_Once more upon the waters! yet once more!  
And the waves bound beneath me as a steed  
That knows his rider. Welcome to their roar!  
Swift be their guidance, wheresoe'er it lead!  
Though the strained mast should quiver as a reed,  
And the rent canvas fluttering strew the gale,  
Still must I on; for I am as a weed,  
Flung from the rock, on Ocean's foam, to sail  
Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's breath prevail._

_– Lord Byron_

A dark shadow hung over the moon and the blinding snow ripped through the freezing air and blotted out the starlight. Icy water churned roughly against the hull of the ship as the mariners of Círdan scampered to and fro across the slippery deck trying to keep the weary ship afloat for just a few moments longer in the furious storm that was lashing across the bay of Forochel.

The High King of Arnor, Arvedui, stood at the bow of the great ship. His hands were clasped behind his back and his gray eyes probed into the darkness of the snowstorm. It was over. He could feel it in the biting chill that reached all the way to his bones and the icy dread that tore through his lungs.

And he felt nothing. No fear. No pain. There was just an echoing sadness that the Northern kingdom of Gondor would fall this night and he could do nothing to stop it. This trial had begun when the Witch-king had attacked so many weeks ago, forcing them to flee into the Mountains. With a shudder, he remembered the bitter cold as they hid in desolate caves with no food – no warmth – for days. He remembered the pity on the faces of the Lossoth when they saw the gaunt condition of him and his men – and their fear as they fed them and gave them shelter.

How he wished now that he had heeded their warnings about the treacherous bay – but that could not be undone now. This was fate – the inevitable – and no one could fight against it. This had been his fate since his birth – since the seer had come to Arnor and named him.

"Arvedui you shall call him, for he will be the last in Arthedain," Malbeth the Seer had proclaimed to Araphant – Arvedui's father. His gnarled hands had held the babe against his chest. "Much sorrow and many lives of men shall pass, until the Dúnedain arise and are united again."

And so destiny had been decided. The fates had been sealed. Arvedui was a dandelion on the summer breezes of inevitability.

At least the line would continue. A deep sigh passed Arvedui's lips. His only son, Aranarth, would survive. Aranarth was safe on the land with instructions to flee to Rivendell should… should the worst happen. They would ransom the Ring of Barahir he had left with the Lossoth – the line _would _continue. He must keep the hope.

The ship gave another huge lurch and he could dimly hear the cries of the elven mariners as he made his way to the small cabin. Snow lashed against his back and he pulled his cloak firmly against his shoulders.

He staggered into the relative warmth of his cabin and plopped down on the narrow bunk. His hands fumbled for several moments with box that sat at the foot of the bed until it opened with a sharp _snap_. Tremors that were not from cold wracked his body as he withdrew the dark orb wrapped with soft cloth. He held the heavy stone for several moments, running his hand over the cloth.

This night – at the end of all things – he would use the palantir one last time to discover the fate of Middle-earth. With trembling fingers, he removed the cloth covering and stared into the dark marble surface of the seeing-stone. His hands grasped the sides of the palantir firmly as he stared into the black depths.

What would the gods show him? What legacy would he leave behind on this earth? Would the High Kings ever rule again?

His eyes slipped shut as images imprinted themselves across his psyche. Some seemed to be past events – Sauron storming across a battle-field – Isildur riding through a forest with the ring around his neck.

But others… Elrond standing on a balcony with a grave look on his face – a smile crossed the High King's lips; yes, the elf lord would protect Aranarth for as long as the need remained.

And then he saw the future – darkness spreading across the land like a black plague, sucking the light and life out of all that was good and noble in the world. Men and elves fell into an abyss of suffering. A great eye rose up on a tower and Arvedui knew instinctively that it was Sauron.

Then a young man appeared – a young man with silver eyes, a noble brow, and a firm mouth. He stood in a desolate plain of ash, a beautiful sword clutched in one hand while his eyes were directed towards a dark mountain, teeming with fire. His clothes were that of a common ranger – an ordinary man, any man in Middle-earth. But, his gray eyes, the set of his jaw, the width of his brow, made Arvedui gasp.

This was his heir – the one who would either save Middle-earth or destroy it for all of time. He would either sit on the throne of Minas Tirith or reign beside Sauron in the black land of Mordor.

Then the image faded to be replaced by a slender, blond elf that Arvedui thought seemed vaguely familiar – _perhaps it was the Prince of Greenwood? _But the elf had been young when Arvedui had met him so it was hard to tell. The elf stood before nine dark shape that the High King recognized as the Nazgúl. His back was straight and his chin was high but his face and side were bloody.

One of the dark, menacing figures started towards him with his crooked blade held high. The sword rose and the elf cast a glance towards the heavens and then a quick look behind him. A small smile parted his bloodied, white lips. Arvedui turned and followed his gaze and saw a group of worn men, running from the devastating scene below.

He was ripped from the trance-like state he had fallen into as the ship gave an almighty lurch that ended with a sickening crunch. The candle fell from the table and rolled across the floor to set fire to the thick rug. Above the sound of screeching ice, the last High King of Arnor could hear the frantic call of the mariners as they wrestled with broken lines and crushed timber.

With a deep sigh, he put the palantir in its box and tucked it underneath his arm as he moved out of the cabin. If this was to be his end, he would have it be an end of a brave man – not a coward. He would see his death.

A huge iceberg had crushed one side of the ship and as Arvedui leaned over the railing, he could see the black water rushing to fill the hull. Snow clung to his hair and his shoulders and a sad smile crossed his face. No fear.

For one inexorable moment, as the boat began to sink with a fury – as the waves crashed up over the deck and the icy water soaked the weary king – the clouds cleared and bright start light flickered across the waters.

Arvedui kept his eyes fixed on those shining pinpoints as he was tossed into the freezing water. He ignored the cries of the elves and his soldiers, focusing on the stars and the hope for the future.

He was a weed – tossed from the cliff and left to the mercy of the ocean. He was a seed – floating across the breeze. And the water surged beneath him and a strange current seemed to carry him towards the silvery ocean. A smile crossed his lips. Yes, truly, he would go wherever the tide would carry him now.

After a few moments of treading the icy water, the palantir slipped from his grasp and the king wondered numbly if it would ever be found before the end of the Valar's song came.

Dreadful calm seemed to come over the bay and the white moonlight reflected off the slivers of ice and the blue lips of the King.

A song touched the High King's ears and he smiled as the elves sang in mourning of the lives lost this night. Let the Fates do as the Fates willed. Arvedui would not fight; this was his destiny, to go down in time as the last High King of Arnor.

And as the Valar rose up in joyful song to welcome the brave king, the stars seemed to twinkle a little bit brighter as if they knew some wonderful secret that would not grace mortal ears for ages to come.

For, indeed, there _was _hope. And hope is the savior of men.

**_ to be continued.

* * *

_  
Author's Notes: **I am quite proud of this story. It's going to be a long, bumpy ride – over 100,000 words but it is already over half done on my hard drive which means we should hopefully have no delays between updates. This is the story that stole my muse on "Flowers" and is only just beginning to give it back. 

Anyways, I know the names are quite confusing but this is the only chapter that deals heavily with unknown names.

Let me know what you think.


	2. Iron in the Soul

**Title: **Wherever the Surge May Sweep

**Author: **Partheon

**Rating: **PG-13 – for violence, adult themes, darkness, blood, and overall angstiness.

**Warnings: **very AU and fairly dark. And, for those who don't know, I make no promises for a happy ending. While I am not a slash writer, there are some unrequited slash issues if you really, really, really squint.

**Summary: **In a much darker Middle-earth than the one we know, Legolas is forced to take drastic measures in order to save Estel. Stretching from the destruction of Greenwood to the death of Aragorn, this sweeping AU examines what could have happened if the elves had made a terrible mistake.

**Disclaimer: **I own none of the recognizable characters in this story - they all belong to JRR Tolkien and New Line.

* * *

**_Chapter One: Iron in the Soul_**

_He gave a deep sigh; I saw the iron enter into his soul.  
---Laurence Stern_

In Rivendell, it was high noon but the day was dark as it would have been had late evening already fallen upon the settlement. Low banks of clouds drifted low and ominous over the gardens, waterfalls, and curving buildings; and no ray of sunlight could thread its way through to touch the cold ground below.

Even the trees seemed to weep, gently sweeping the ground with their long, feathery branches. Dew made the green leaves of flowers sag lower than before. And the birds had flown the gardens to happier places.

A quiet procession, full of silent steps and solemn faces, seemed to almost float over the damp grass. The long, dark robes of the elves brushed against their bare feet and their long, smooth hair swayed with every step. Faces were composed with an unnatural stillness as if each elf feared the slightest hint of an emotion would lead to an outpouring that none could hope to contain.

At the forefront of the group, four tall elves bore a bower of branches on their shoulders. Their clothing was in the fashion of Greenwood and their countenances seemed to be touched by a great grief. They led the other elves with rhythmic steps towards the great garden pavilion – a circle of rounded stone surrounded by long green vines and a wide stream, flowing towards the great Brunien.

When they reached the elegantly carved pavilion, a light spattering of rain broke out. Elves turned their eyes to the heavens and let the rain soak their skin freely. If nature would weep this day, they would not complain.

A composed body with a gold circlet atop its blond hair was laid on the pyre at the middle of the room. Wood was piled around it and then a blaze was touched to the dry kindling. Orange flames licked over the knotty wood and consumed the fine silken clothes and ate away at fair skin. Smoke curled and twisted in the air and the smell of roasting meat lingered in the damp air.

Legolas Thranduillion fell to his knees when the fire fully consumed the body and his shoulders quivered with the cries trapped within his chest. White hands were clutched at his head and eyes, gray like the ocean after a storm, were squeezed shut. Tears streaked down cheekbones that fairly looked carved from marble and a curved jaw that was just a tad to round to ever be considered overtly masculine. It was an all together striking face – even when grief had screwed itself across the pale skin.

One of the sons of Elrond knelt beside him and touched his hands to the prince's shoulders. His words were quiet – meant only for the ears of the grieved. His face was serene but comforting. Thick lashes framed warm green eyes and the soft gaze seemed to understand all of Legolas's woes before they were put into words.

So when the blond elf fell against his friend, tears leaking on the dark velvet, it was no surprise that the darker half-elf swept Legolas against himself, assuaging the muffled cries with nonsensical murmurs.

And when the fire had burned itself out many hours later, Elladan helped the young prince to his feet and allowed the willowy frame to lean against his own as they both walked towards the altar.

The long fingers shook as Legolas reached into the still warm ashes. Clumpy gray soot stuck to the pale skin and the prince wavered, his face turned towards the darkening sky. "May the earth and the sky," he said in a voice roughened with his numbing grief, "take back one of its own – allowing his soul to rest in the peace his life afforded. Thranduil, king of Greenwood." And his voice trailed off when tears once again sprang to his eyes

His steps were halting but sure as he made his way to the edge of the balcony and leaned over the wide stream that flowed by the small pavilion. With a noise that sounded like a deep sob, he opened his fist and turned his palm downwards – allowing the ash to fall from his smooth hand and into the gray waters.

When the last ash left his hand, his tenuous strength went with it and he sagged against Elladan. Blond hair shone dully as his head lolled back against Elladan's broader shoulder and blue eyes awash with tears slipped shut.

Lord Elrond with his regal face stepped closer to the two and laid one hand against Legolas's smooth forehead. He closed his eyes for a brief moment and Legolas's muscles lost any remaining tension and he began to topple toward the ground.

Elladan caught the prince about the chest and hoisted him up to his arms – one arm beneath Legolas's knees and the other around his shoulders as the blond head rolled limply against his chest – a pale, worn-out doll.

"Take him to the house," the half-elf lord whispered. "He needs rest. The strain is great upon his mind."

"Yes, Ada." Elladan turned and began to carry Legolas to the main house and a soft bed for the prince to rest.

The throng of mourners parted before him as he walked through their midst. Their saddened eyes darkened just a little bit more at the sight of the limp, white prince in his friend's arms.

Songs of mourning wafted through the dark branches of the trees as the last of the ashes were swept away.

* * *

Rain was pattering incessantly on the carved rooftop when Legolas opened pained eyes and blinked at the room around him. He was tucked into a large, white bed with a fluffy pillow cushioning his head. The wall gave way to a window just next to the bed and Legolas could see the trees bending with the force of the storm.

How long would the heavens weep? He wondered and his roughened fingers squeezed the coverlet.

As surely as the forests of Greenwood had been overrun by darkness and the elves that had inhabited it been slaughtered and scattered, Legolas's soul was barren and cold. His mind, once eager to learn and explore – to gain new insight, to experience beauty and adventure – was forever changed by the losses he had suffered.

His world had been slashed in pieces by the same orcs who burned his home and murdered his people. Legolas's hair still had that flaxen color and he still possessed that noble brow and kind mouth that had marked him for centuries – but on the inside – in the deepest parts of his soul – he was forever altered.

Thranduil had died on the outskirts of Greenwood as the few remaining elves had fled the approaching orcs. The arrow had come from seemingly nowhere – later they found it had been a single orc scout – and had struck the tall blond king in the chest – piercing his lung. Legolas had held him in his arms while his father had choked and trembled. The distraught prince had even tried to stem the gaping, death wound with his bare hands. Viscid scarlet had covered his palms and his clothes for days afterwards as there had been no time to wash during the rest of their desperate flight.

Struggling to breathe, Thranduil had whispered for Legolas to be a strong leader and had died with a last bubbly exhale. Legolas had dim memories of clinging desperately to the body and refusing to release his hold as the army of orcs had gotten closer. Then guards had forcibly dragged him from his father's body and out of harm's way, ignoring his pleas to stay with his father until death came for him as well. Another two guards had carried Thranduil's limp body between them as they had fled to the safe haven of Rivendell.

Beyond that, memories shifted and hazed for Legolas. He remembered next to nothing about the five day journey across the mountains to Elrond's home. The arrival at Rivendell was a blur consisting of worried voices and warm hands. Elladan had told him that he had collapsed in the courtyard soon after their arrival and had slept for nearly three days.

"My friend?"

Already knowing Elladan was there, Legolas made no move at the query. "I am well," he whispered, his eyes fixed on the water droplets. "I thank you for your support this day."

Dark burgundy flashed in the corner of Legolas's eye as Elladan sat down next to him. Silence prevailed as both waited for the other to break the somber mood that had fallen over the whole of Rivendell. Thunder rumbled through the gray clouds and the rain increased its temp upon the roof.

"Will you sail then?" Elladan's voice was carefully neutral and he did not look at Legolas when he spoke.

The archer's jaw clenched for a moment at some inner pain that clawed up his insides. "No. I am bound to Middle-earth as of now."

"What?" Elladan's tone was clearly startled and Legolas felt a glimmer of faint amusement. The blond elf had known that all of Rivendell expected him to board the next ship to the Undying Lands with what was left of Greenwood's people – to forget his grief in the great green shores.

"My fate lies not in the West. Not yet." The words were a sigh and Legolas sat up in the bed, for the first time turning his bruised eyes to his friend. "I have had many dreams of late."

"Dreams? I never knew you to be blessed with foresight, my friend."

Legolas lifted his chin. "I am not. Never before have I dreamed with purpose but I know that these are visions sent from the Valar themselves – and they bind me to this land until they are fulfilled. I have spoken to my father's councilors. A number of my people will remain here for a time in hope that Greenwood will once again be restored to it former light."

"Is that your dream? The resurrection of your home?"

"No." Legolas settled himself back and paused to still his mind and heart. "My dreams are much more – important than that." The deep blue eyes clouded over and the elf's thoughts wandered away from the room. "I will speak to your father," he said when his gaze once again sharpened on his friend. "And we will wait to see what the fates have in store for us."

* * *

The pavilion was deep in the lower gardens of Rivendell. Few elves knew of its existence and even fewer elves ever took the time to walk to its secluded location several miles from the main buildings. Large trellises of white flowers surrounded the stone circle and the rich smell of pines lent their fragrances to the setting. The stone was white and polished with elven runes scripted around the outer edges and chairs were strategically places between them.

In this quiet place, Legolas Thrandullion knelt before Lord Elrond and prepared to receive his father's crown. His blond hair was done in the traditional warrior braids and looked to be made of spun gold. His tunic was a silvery green with an ornate collar and long sleeves. The impossibly soft material fell down in silky waves to his knees and was bound to his slim waist by a delicate golden belt. His leggings were the same silvery green as his tunic and clung to every contour of his muscled legs and ended at the soft brown leather of his boots. Green and gold – the colors of Greenwood.

On the chairs sat the leading elves of Rivendell as well as those members of Greenwood council that had been blessed to survive the holocaust inflicted by the orcs on the wood elves.

Elladan and Elrohir were also in attendance, sitting quietly near their father in their matching burgundy robes. Their faces were set but, in their eyes, they could not hide the pride that they held for their friend.

Wind brushed the leafy branches as Legolas took the oath of the kingship of Greenwood and swore to protect the few remaining people of his land until the time he would pass the crown on to his own successor. His voice was tremulous but his gaze was clear and when the golden circlet of leaves was placed upon his head, he rose with the grace of a dancer.

He tilted his head back and the sunlight reflected off his golden hair to form a slight glow around the crown – highlighting the nobleness of his brow and the deep courage in his river blue eyes. In that moment, all those in attendance knew – without any reservations or doubts – that Valar had laid their hands upon this elf and set him apart for the noblest of deeds.

The moment passed as the sun was hidden behind a bank of clouds and once again Legolas was a young elf who had just been stripped of everything he had known. He accepted their quiet applause with grace but there was a lingering tightness about his eyes – a subtle undercurrent of fear that perhaps he was not brave enough or fast enough or intelligent enough to take on this responsibility. Perhaps he should have sailed and let someone else take this rule.

But Legolas – for all his diplomatic training and strategic planning – could not see how naturally the crown sat on his head or the way his shoulders had straightened just a little since the coronation.

He could not see the changes – but all others could.

* * *

Galadriel stood in silence before her mirror. The water pitcher stood near, waiting for its mistress to make use of it. Her posture was calm but the trees could sense the deep uneasy turbulence in her soul.

Greenwood had been destroyed and its sovereign slain. The news had come from Rivendell and she had seen the visions of horror from her mirror. Elves fleeing for their lives before a wicked tide of orcs springing up from Dol Goldur – a tide that no one had expected or been able to prepare for.

Dol Goldur had been a splotch of darkness on the otherwise peaceful woods – a patch of thorns amidst a garden of tulips. It was considered small and aggravating but generally thought to be harmless as long as one did not venture to close. The haunted castle that was coexisting with a serene village.

When the first reports of orc activity came in from the borders, the elves had not been too concerned. Every a hundred years or so, Dol Goldur would attempt to rise up against its neighbor but would always be swiftly beaten down by the larger, more skilled warriors of Greenwood. By the time the elves had realized that this had been no ordinary uprising, it had been too late and the orcs had swept through their defenses – killing all in their path.

From her mirror, Galadriel had seen the burning capital – the blood running through the streets and gaping faces of orcs as they feasted on the elves they had killed. She had thought all of their Greenwood kin to be lost in the carnage. Then Elrond had sent word of a small band of survivors – led by Thranduil's son – that had escaped to seek refuge in Rivendell.

Such darkness had not come to taint Middle-earth since the day that the Last High King of Arnor had been killed in the icy fields – leaving the throne to stewards that rendered the once proud kingdom to a poor imitation of its former glory.

The dark pupils of her blue eyes darkened as she remembered the day that Aranarth, son of Arvedui, had arrived at Rivendell, holding his own son Arahael in his arms. He had given his son to the elves before departing to become a chieftain of the Dunedain so that the Northern kingdom could be continued in some way.

It was then, over five hundred years ago, that the elves had taken an oath to protect the line of Isuldir until the time that the throne of Gondor could be reclaimed by the true king.

Hope had been held for awhile that the line could be carried through Anárion. But then Eärnur had fallen in Minas Morgul only seventy years later and Gondor had been passed to the Stewards.

But now – she shook her head as her mouth curved in sorrow – the darkness was growing and the blood was weakening. She feared that one day the only way to ensure Middle-earth's survival was to end the line of Isuldir and find a new heir to sit upon the throne. Their blood was weak – would the day come when their blood was too weak to be allowed to continue?

Her dainty hand smoothed over the pitcher's curved handle and she then lifted the silver instrument above the mirror, watching as the clear water splashed down into the polished basin.

Legolas Thranduillion was vital in the great scheme of Middle-earth. Galadriel had felt the Valar's blessing upon him since the first time she had seen the little elfling over a thousand years prior. A luminescence had surrounded the shy blond and when those huge blue eyes had peered up at her, Galadriel had known that Legolas was destined for things greater then even she could ever foresee. Born under the Light of Eärendil, the young prince exuded tenderness and nobility as roses exuded pleasant fragrance.

The water in the mirror grew dim and she waited, clearing her mind and opening her heart to see what the future might hold.

Flames ate away at a green forest and orcs celebrated in the background – the past. Legolas knelt before Lord Elrond, receiving the crown of his father – the present. Darkness covered the mirror for a moment and then lifted to reveal Legolas and Lord Elrond, obviously arguing. Legolas riding from Rivendell with the sun rising behind him. Legolas crumpled on black stone while someone who vaguely reminded her of Isildur stood above him. The specter of Legolas then vanished and the water was filled with a soul-wrenching blackness that devoured all in its path and a gold ring seemed to tumble from the side of the mirror and into the center. The ring hovered there amidst the growing darkness and then seemed to grow until it consumed everything.

Galadriel gasped as she recognized the ring and the vision was lost. After a moment of tense wondering, she forced herself to settle into a state of calmness and reached out along the link she shared with Elrond, sending the vision she had just seen along with a few words

_The destruction of Greenwood puts events in motion that neither of us can ever hope to forestall. Darkness is coming._

Elrond's words were slow in coming as he reached back to her across the miles, taking his time to understand each image she had sent to him. _Is there no hope left for this world, then? Are we to flee across the sea and let the earth and its inhabitants fade into ruin?_

_Darkness will come but I foresee that there will yet be hope. _Galadriel's mental voice faded to a sigh. _Our time is ending, my old friend. The son of Thranduil will play on a grander scale then either of us will in the coming days._

_He has refused to sail to the Undying Lands. His coronation was today. He will be a good king._

_The son of Thranduil is blessed by the Valar – in their sight, he is esteemed over many others. He will be blessed in whatever they call him to do. _ _Keep him safe, Elrond. _Galadriel withdrew from the link and turned her gaze up to the bright spots of light in the dark sky.

For the first time in her life, Galadriel acknowledged that sometime in the near future, she would no longer be called to play a part in the battle for Middle-earth. Her time would come to an end and she would diminish and fade over the Sea.

Earthy smells touched her senses and she allowed the soothing song of the trees to ameliorate her worried spirit.

Destiny would come whether she was here to see it or not.

* * *

Saruman gathered his white robe tightly about himself, his gaze locked on the small portal that led out of Orthanc's dark insides. His mouth was turned downwards and his eyes were cold shards of black ice.

_So_, he thought, _Greenwood has fallen into darkness and Thranduillion has been crowned. It is as I have foreseen._

Shiny black marble reflected his face and his lip curled in disgust. The elves, he knew, had grown complacent as they realized that their time was drawing to an end. They could not even guess at the tide of darkness that was speeding rapidly towards them. They thought that the slaughter of Greenwood was horrible – wait until they saw what Saruman had planned.

He imagined the proud city of Minas Tirith bending to his every whim. He saw the broad shoulders of the Rohan horse lords stooped beneath heavy loads of brick as they slaved away for him – Lothlorien and Rivendell remaining only as haunted, abandoned villages. He pictured the elves chained in rooms of stone, their cries bouncing off thick walls as they pleaded for sunlight, air, and trees just one more time before they succumbed to the weaknesses of their immortal bodies.

An almost worshipful respect filled his eyes when he turned to look at the palantir sitting on its little pedestal. Yes, he had foreseen all of this with the help of this dark orb – with the help of the true lord of Middle-earth.

Sauron had seen the discontent in Saruman's heart. He had seen how this wizard's strength was legions above the other petty Maia who inhabited Middle-earth. He had seen – and he called Saruman out from the midst of their petty rabble. He had offered the wizard innumerable riches and far-reaching power. He had offered wisdom and resources, pleasure and wealth.

The fallen Vala had offered. And Saruman had taken.

It was only a matter of time now, the wizard knew, until all the plans came to fruition and Saruman ruled this land with the iron fist of power. It was only a matter of time… and a few delicate details that had yet to be worked out.

In all the wizard's wanderings of future paths, he had only come across one that may not bode well for his assets.

Legolas Thrandullion could not be allowed to interfere with the line of the kings. Saruman knew that his power would be complete when he took possession of the one ring of power – and had turned an heir of Isildur to his side.

Men were weak – the wizard chuckled – the offer of power and happiness and wealth was often enough to turn the strongest man to the side of darkness. The few men who could bypass those bribes, would often succumb under the influence of the right amount of pain. And the line of Isildur had proven itself exceptionally vulnerable to both of those tactics.

However, Saruman had seen how the Valar had blessed the young elf prince. He had seen in his palantir the natural glow that exuded from the elf. With the eyes of the Maia, he had witnessed the way nature seemed to cradle Legolas and protect him from all harm. Legolas was special and Saruman had no doubt that if anyone could render an heir of Isildur invulnerable to Saruman's touch and see them seated in the White City under the banner of peace – it would be this elf.

The young elf had the power to strengthen a man's spirit and resolve – to make a man's soul impregnable to the devious plots of the darkness. In his visions, Saruman had seen the prince and a young dark haired Gondorian standing side-by-side while Orthanc was razed by armies of men and elves.

Something, however, stayed Saruman's hand whenever he thought of doing away with the young elf in the near future. Legolas was gifted – incredibly so. If all of that power and strength could somehow be bent to serve the wizard… well, the benefits would be beyond even his own visions.

But, he knew that Thranduillion – despite his assets – would have to be killed before he was allowed to influence an heir of Isildur.

* * *

**Author's note:** yup, this is another setting the stage chapter. Next chapter, we start getting some action. But I do hope you enjoyed this beginning – as it was rewritten about four times in a multitude of different styles. Anyways, let me know what you think and we'll move on from there.

Updates will be rather sporadic – mostly depending on when I have time to post. Basically, with my incredibly hectic schedule, I will be posting whenever I have time. That may be twice a week or once a month – so please have patience : - )

Thanks to all of my reviewers and kudos to those of you who got all the names – it took me forever to get them all straight in my head. The next time we see any new names is chapter eight – and then I have lots of time to explain who they are.

Once again – thanks for taking the time to read this little (okay, it's very long) story of mine.


	3. Where Duty Leads

**Title: **Wherever the Surge May Sweep

**Author: **Partheon

**Rating: **PG-13 – for violence, adult themes, darkness, blood, and overall angstiness.

**Warnings: **very AU and fairly dark. And, for those who don't know, I make no promises for a happy ending. While I am not a slash writer, there are some unrequited slash issues if you really, really, really squint.

**Summary: **In a much darker Middle-earth than the one we know, Legolas is forced to take drastic measures in order to save Estel. Stretching from the destruction of Greenwood to the death of Aragorn, this sweeping AU examines what could have happened if the elves had made a terrible mistake.

**Disclaimer: **I own none of the recognizable characters in this story—they all belong to JRR Tolkien and New Line.

* * *

_**Chapter Two: Where Duty Leads**_

_Then on! then on! where duty leads,  
My course be onward still._

_– Bishop Reginald Herber_

Legolas knew that he could withdraw the knife hidden in his belt in less than two seconds. He knew that the blade could be imbedded in the chest of the man in front of him in another second. Three seconds.

If this situation turned out for the worse, he would have three seconds to save his own life and the lives of countless others. He prayed the situation would diffuse before then.

"Do not do this, Arathorn." Legolas pitched his voice low and soothing – as if he was speaking to a skittish colt and not the seething young man before him. "You know that the path of darkness leads only to despair and suffering. Think of your wife."

Dark brown hair – almost black – shone dully in the dim sunlight. Weathered skin was the color of a roasted pecan and cloudy gray eyes were widened in fear and confusion. The brow was noble and the face perhaps had at one time been considered gentle – now it was twisted in malice. "It is my wife I think of," Arathorn fairly growled, "and she will no longer have to live in the worn dugouts of the rangers. She will be a queen with anything she wants!"

Legolas slid his foot along the dusty ground. His mind reached out to the young man's, trying desperately to touch the confused thoughts. But, again their bond, as it had been for the past few months, was choked out by darkness. "She does not want to be queen, my friend, she wants…"

"You are no longer my friend! You betrayed me."

"I sought to help you." Sky blue eyes darted towards the small shanty to the left of their tableau.

Rotting boards held up a thin roof and shabby curtains hung in empty windows. The rickety door had been locked – Legolas had made sure of that before he had run to find Arathorn. Now, he was glad that the door had been locked, for when Legolas had returned, Arathorn had been pounding the door with his large fists, demanding entrance. Legolas winced at the memory and prayed that Gilraen was not watching this encounter. He could almost imagine the slim woman huddled inside – her small hands clasped protectively around the sign of her pregnancy.

"I do not need your help!" Arathorn gripped the white bone handle of his own knife and his eyes enflamed with an angry passion – a foreign emotion compared to the warm gaze that Legolas was accustomed to seeing from the man. "I will be king!"

The elf dry swallowed and his fingers twitched closer to the concealed knife. "Arathorn," he pleaded again, gentleness and love bleeding into the word despite the current situation. "Please."

"My father died because of you!" Corded muscles tensed further and the words were spat between white lips.

"I did not…" The memory seared through Legolas's psyche and he took a breath to steady his resolve. Hurting blue eyes slid shut for a moment to hide the flash of pain but then they snapped open. Always keep an eye on the enemy. And referring to the young man as an enemy hurt Legolas more than he cared to show. "That is the past. If you can no longer look upon me as your friend at least remember your wife and unborn child. Be strong and true for them if not for me."

Clarity struggled to reassert itself in the madness that had clouded Arathorn's eyes for some many months and strained muscles softened just a little, loosening. "My son… Aragorn…" The knife wavered, the point dipping toward the ground, and Legolas chanced to take another mincing step forwards.

"You can put down the knife," the elf whispered, his lips moving only a little. Legolas hardly dared to breathe for fear of destroying this single moment of hard-earned peace. "You no longer have need of it anymore." He tenderly tried once again to reach through their link, sending soothing waves of comfort and light into the battered mind of his friend.

Arathorn blinked and licked at his lips. "Legolas," he murmured, sounding strangely detached, "where is…"

The ranger never finished his sentence for from the shanty came the sound of shattering glass. And the fragile sanity that Legolas had seen momentarily glimmering in Arathorn's stormy eyes shattered with it. The bond that Legolas had painstakingly reopened snapped shut and Legolas was almost physically thrown backwards as he was mentally shoved from the man's mind.

"No!" the young man howled – the noise of a wild, cornered beast. He lunged erratically forward and the dust plumed outwards from his feet. The steel blade flashed towards Legolas's chest.

Battle-honed instincts snapped into place and Legolas's own knife was held in one upraised fist while the elf ducked under the descending blade. He felt a solid jolt go through his knife-wielding arm.

Legolas knew what had happened but he still jumped a little when he looked up and saw the blank gray eyes staring back at him.

Arathorn's knife fell from dead fingers and the knife imbedded in the man's chest that Legolas held in a one-handed grip was the only thing that kept him from toppling over to the dusty ground. A patch of blood that looked oddly like a rose appeared around the white steel of the blade.

Disbelief and horror colored Legolas's face as he stood to take the now limp young man in his arms. The body sagged against him and he went to his knees in the dust, holding the shoulders in a sideways embrace. "Arathorn?" he whispered, his mouth quivering. "My friend?"

Gray eyes opened heavily and they were gentle and innocent – the eyes that Legolas remembered. Rattled breathing shook the bloody chest and soft lips were rigid in pain. "Legolas…" the man murmured, his hands drifting to the handle of the knife, stopping just before touching it. "I feel as if I have," he swallowed thickly as a blood drooled over his lips and across pasty cheeks, "as if I have been lost. So lost."

"Yes." Legolas laid a long-fingered hand over the man's quivering digits. "You have been lost but now you have been found. All will be well." A sob jerked its way up his throat as the link between their minds sprang open and Arathorn's pain hit him full force. "I am sorry…sorry…oh, Arathorn." He laid his forehead on the man's and did nothing to prevent the tears now running down his face.

"All's well. I think I… would have killed you."

"No, never. You are strong. If I had waited…"

"Gilraen!" The man jostled in Legolas's hold, his eyes turning towards the small house. "Do not let her see…"

"Of course not, my friend."

"I love… her."

"I will tell her." Legolas stroked the tear-dampened cheeks. "Shush, now. You will be fine. Soon the pain will be gone and…" The words disintegrated into a sharp cry of grief that Legolas quickly stifled by jamming one fist into his own mouth.

"And my son… Aragorn… protect…" The man's eyes grew wide and his breathing hitched. White lips parted into a slight smile and his bloodied, trembling fingers found the strength to grip Legolas's briefly. "My friend…" he sighed and then the light grew dull in the gray eyes.

"Arathorn?"

No answer came to Legolas and the elf's face grew even whiter. With trembling fingers, he stroked the sweat-dampened jaw down to the slight hollow of the throat where there _should_ have been a pulse – but now was numbingly still.

There was a tearing sensation deep within Legolas's grief stricken mind and the elf cried out again as the mental bond he had shared with the young human was ripped away. He had always known that death would rend the bond in two – but he had never imagined it would be so soon…. His mind ached and his eyes blurred with pain until all that was visible was his young friend's dead face.

Death had slackened Arathorn's face, lending a soft innocence to the features that had only moments before been screwed in anger. Aching vulnerability was in the slightly opened mouth and half-lidded eyes – an expression that Legolas was more accustomed to than anger on the tan face.

A steady wail swelled in Legolas's chest as held the dark head closed to his breast. The small segment of his mind that was not lost in the sweeping grief hoped that Gilaren would not look out the window. She did not deserve to see this.

Arathorn was dead. Legolas had failed.

* * *

The sallow wax of the candle dripped across the pewter handle onto to the grainy surface of the table. Legolas touched his finger and felt the comforting burn for a moment before the wax cooled completely. 

Night had long since dropped its shade over Rivendell and the whisper of a breeze swept away the day's last heat.

So many memories lingered here in the gilded archways of the elven settlement. Times when Arathorn was young and innocent – when the child had first arrived at his third birthday to be raised in Rivendell – just as his fathers had been. There were so many memories and Legolas shoved them ruthlessly into the back of his mind to focus on the here-and-now.

It had been hours – though it felt like much longer – since Lord Elrond had disappeared into the healing rooms with Gilraen. A little less time since Legolas had buried young Arathorn in a plot of land just outside Rivendell's borders. The young man now lay in a deep grave only marked by an inscription on a nearby oak. No songs would be sung by the elves to lament his passing – no silent, mourning vigils would be held. Instead, there would be quiet relief that he had _died_ before he could wreck more havoc on the darkening Middle-earth.

Sweet-smelling breezes ruffled the long, heavy drapes that were roped back by silken cords from the window and lifted the blond strands of Legolas's hair before all was still and quiet once again.

Legolas picked at the newly cooled wax, his eyes focused on the yellow glow of the flame. Perhaps if he stared deep enough into the flickering light – perhaps if he stared long enough, he could forget staring gray eyes and slightly parted lips. Perhaps if he listened closely enough to the rustling tree branches, he could forget the sound his blade made when it slid deep into Arathorn's heart.

Agony pounded through his head and Legolas could feel the festering mental wound of where his bond with Arathorn had been only a few short hours before. Now, it was only a gaping sore of pain – a throbbing inflamed area that only served to remind Legolas of his failure.

He had been so happy when he had first created the bond with the young man. The feeling of being able to reach inside the mortal's mind and share thoughts with him - to speak words in the man's mind where no one else could here. To form a bond like that was the deepest expression of friendship. And to have it ripped away so callously…

"Legolas?"

The elf only barely managed not to jump when Lord Elrond's deep voice called his name in the previous silence of the room. He had not even heard the door open. "Elrond," he acknowledged with a deep breath. "How does the lady fare? Will she and the child be well?"

Breezes came again and Legolas turned his face towards the cool air.

"You know she went into labor?" Elrond's voice was carefully neutral and his expression bland.

Another deep breath was drawn before Legolas could answer. "I did."

"Gilraen will be fine come morning. We sedated her so that she could recover her strength more rapidly."

"And the babe?" Legolas turned and fixed blue eyes that were as cold as ice on the older elf. One hand curled in on itself – rough fingernails digging into the palm. "What of Aragorn?"

Brown eyes flitted about the room nervously before their gaze rested just below Legolas's eyes. "The child was stillborn." The words were said without inflection and the mouth that said them hardly moved.

"No." Legolas shook his head and pressed his palm flat on the table. "No, that cannot be." His voice choked and he turned his face to the window.

"I am deeply sorry, my friend."

Legolas's mouth moved and his eyes darted downwards. Candlelight reflected on the smooth, fair skin of his cheeks. "No, we have protected them too long for the line to end in this manner. I cannot," the elf's voice cracked slightly, "accept it."

Elrond hesitated. "It may be for the best. The days have grown to dark. Saruman has been actively seeking out the heirs. Arador almost turned and Arathorn did turn… we can no longer protect as we once did. It is better this way. They are weak and vulnerable. They will bring about our doom."

"Then why should we not help them? Teach them to stay in the light? Teach them to be free of the shackles of their weakness?" The breathy words lingered in the air and Legolas turned his face away.

"And is not that what you tried to accomplish with Arathorn? And how did that venture turn out?"

Haunting sorrow stole over Legolas's countenance and he swallowed thickly. "I – I was too lenient with him. I ignored too much…"

"The fault was not your own. He was weak as all of his descendants would have been." Thin lips softened and Elrond reached across the table. "They cannot help but fail. It is their nature. Do not be so hard on yourself."

Legolas covered his face with one hand. "The child cannot be dead. He would have been hope. I had foreseen…"

"You are not foresighted. There is no chance that you could have seen…"

A child's wail rose up over the rustling trees and Legolas's ragged breathing. It cut through the fog of grief and denial that had surrounded the blond's heart and infused anger and hope in the apathetic mind.

Dawning realization crept over the elf's face at the extent of the elf lord's betrayal. The child did live. "You lied!" And Legolas was out of his chair and running across the room, his sharp ears tracking the sound to the room down the hallway.

A healer stood in the middle of the room, frantically rocking the wailing child. At the opening of the door, his eyes grew wide like a frightened doe and the elf backed away from Legolas's heaving form. "Please – you are not supposed to be in here."

Legolas paid no heed and plucked the babe from the healer's suddenly boneless arms. Frosty eyes glowered at the healer before Legolas turned his attention fully to the baby.

Wrapped in a white blanket, only the head and a bit of chest could be seen of the small child. A fuzzy swath of dark hair decorated the rounded head and pudgy features were scrunched into a reddened fury. Legolas could feel tiny legs moving against the support of his arms as he gently rocked the child.

"Why did you lie?" he asked softly of Elrond when the cries of Aragorn had been quieted and the babe had relaxed in Legolas's arms.

The elf lord leaned against the doorframe and waved the frightened healer from the room. With a heavy sigh, he fixed a cold gaze on the baby. "It would have been better had you thought the child had never breathed. We cannot allow this child to live, Legolas. Middle-earth grows dark and the tentacles of evil are too powerful. Saruman has fully given himself to the darkness and all he needs is an heir of Isildur to complete his plans.

"We cannot afford to have the child turn on us. Long have we guarded the pure line but now there is no hope remaining. A curse lies deep within their marrow and no one can hope to remove it from their bodies. Our last duty would be to ensure the continued purity of the line – to make sure none of them would ever fall into darkness. I promise you that I would make sure the child would feel no pain – he would just go to sleep and never wake up…"

Shock had held Legolas's tongue for several moments but now the elf was spluttering with rage. "You would kill an innocent child?" He clutched the babe tighter to his chest.

"For the good of all…"

"Aragorn is our hope and you would do away with him. He will be the one to succeed where all his ancestors failed! I know this." Legolas dropped his voice to a whisper. "I have foreseen."

"You have not the gift of…"

"I have foreseen." Legolas lifted his chin, his blue eyes turning to a dark shade of gray. "I may not have a kingdom and my people may be few, but I am still a king. This child will not be harmed. He is under the protection of the elves of Greenwood."

Lord Elrond slumped. "He cannot stay in Rivendell. I will not have you bring darkness down on all of us for your whims."

"Then I will leave with him."

"And where will you go? Lothlorien will not take you in. Galadriel has foreseen the same as I. The line of Isildur will bring only darkness upon Middle-earth." Elrond hesitated and then forged on. "They will bring about your doom. We have both seen your demise."

"I will raise him as my own," Legolas continued, ignoring Elrond's last words. "I will live in Minas Tirith itself if need be. Far enough away so you will not have to worry about your lands being spoiled by this imagined darkness."

"Legolas, do not be foolish…" Elrond looked back towards the room where he knew that Gilraen lay in a drugged, peaceful sleep. "Your life is too precious to be wasted on something like this."

Candlelight reflected off of Legolas's wan smile. "My life is my own, Lord Elrond. I will leave in the morning."

"This will lead to your downfall," the half-elf warned again.

"Will you stand in my way or not?"

As Legolas stepped through the doorway, Elrond grabbed the elf king's upper arm in a firm grip. "I will let you pursue this foolhardy plot but Gilraen must never know of this. She will believe that her son died in labor."

"And if I decide to tell her differently?"

"Then do not be fooled into thinking that you can ever run far enough." Elrond moved away. "I wish you would reconsider, Legolas."

But the elf had already gone.

* * *

Legolas slept that night with young Aragorn pulled up next to his chest – one hand supporting the head on the other wrapped around the back. Even in his reverie, his vacant eyes were directed towards the door to his room and when footsteps passed by during the night, he would subconsciously tighten his hold on the child. 

When he awoke, the elf started momentarily, wondering why there was a tiny warm body cradled in his arms. Then the tide of memories washed over his wearied mind and Legolas turned his face into the pillow and lay completely still for several long moments.

Could he really do this in the name of the greater good? Could he give up all he had known in this world for the past several thousand years and raise a young human to maturity? Was he wise enough – strong enough – fast enough – to keep the future of Middle-earth from darkness?

The strain of the burden seemed great upon his grief laden shoulders and he considered for a brief span relinquishing his hold on Aragorn to Lord Elrond. He contemplated allowing the half-elf to do what he willed with the young human child. After all, who was Legolas Thranduillion – king or not – to go against the wishes of the two of the most powerful ring bearers in all of Middle-earth?

Aragorn made a slight snuffing noise and Legolas felt the warm face burrow a little closer to his chest.

Downy hair slipped beneath his fingers and Legolas rubbed the rounded head, feeling the delicacy of bones that were not even fully knit together as of yet. Even though the child had not yet opened his eyes in Legolas's presence, the elf knew that Aragorn's eyes were gray – gray like the thunder heads that gathered on a summer day – gray like the river after a storm – gray like Arathorn's had been.

He had seen them in his visions many times. Over and over again since the years prior to his father's death, Legolas had seen the shadowy phantasm of this young child in his sleeping hours. Now, seeing him here in the dim light of early morning seemed strange and abstract – almost to the point that Legolas wondered if he was still lost in the realms of sleep.

His gaze skimmed over the small nose and folded chin – the trail of drool that had streamed down one lax, pudgy cheek. The gods had convened and the future was set; Legolas knew that his fate was wrapped up in this child. This was who he had waited for patiently. Legolas could no more abandon this child to death than he could saw down every tree in Middle-earth.

With his resolve strengthened and his heart steadfast, Legolas rose from the bed and swaddled Aragorn in blankets before laying the child in the middle of the bed. He paused a brief moment to study the child's sleep-lax features. Then, in the dim light of the room, Legolas began to gather the few possessions he would carry with him on this destined journey.

A single satchel was stuffed with leggings, tunics, and a warm cloak. His weapons were strapped to their customary places and a golden mirror belonging to his mother was stowed in a pocket.

The satchel sat on a chair by the door and his weapons rested beside it. Legolas stood before a wooden closet and hesitated ever so slightly, casting a look behind him at the sleeping baby. Steeling his resolve, Legolas reached in between the more formal robes he was leaving behind and withdrew a pouch with strange looking straps extending from it. He held it in his hands for several breaths, feeling the softness of the leather and studying the carefulness of the tiny stitches. His sky blue eyes clouded and his tongue darted out to lick his lips.

When Aragorn came awake with a pitiful cry, Legolas dropped his arms so the pouch hung at his side and hurried to lift Aragorn into his arms. He fumbled for a moment before grabbing the bottle of milk the frightened healer had brought by soon after his swift departure from Lord Elrond.

One leg tucked up underneath him, Legolas gently nuzzled the tip of the bottle into the child's mouth and watched carefully as the infant tentatively sucked at the milk. When he was sure the child would have no difficulties, Legolas's gaze once again returned to the pouch.

"I made this for your mother," he said quietly, "when I first learned she was pregnant. I was going to give it to her right after your birth. My mother had one just like it that she carried me around in when I was small, but…" Legolas nudged the fabric with his leg. "I suppose I will need it more than her now."

Aragorn gurgled and turned away from the bottle. A little bit of milk stained the pink skin around his mouth and Legolas wiped it away with his sleeve. Remembering when he held another human baby many years prior, the elf gently turned Aragorn over and patted the fragile back.

A burp had just escaped Aragorn's lips when there was the sound of someone rapping at the door.

Leaving the pouch on the bed, Legolas tucked Aragorn in one arm and opened the door with the other. "Elrohir," he greeted with a slight smile, "I had hoped to see you before I departed."

"I wish you would wait," the elder twin said, casting a passing glance at the little child. "Elladan will be angry when he learns that you left without a word to him. He cares for you deeply."

Legolas stepped aside from the door so that the half-elf could enter the room. "You know I can not tarry. Your father barely let me leave with him as it is and I do not wish to bring the enemy's hand down upon this realm. You must tell Elladan when he gets back that I wish there to be no lingering animosity between us. He is my brother more than he is my friend."

Elrohir nodded and then held out a cloth bag he was carrying with him. "I packed a few medicines that I thought you might need. Common herbs to treat human ailments. You will recognize all of them so I will not waste your time describing them. There is also some… baby things… in there as well. Diapers, small clothes, and some bottles. I suppose you can buy some more supplies when you reach wherever you are so set on going. Do you have money?"

"I have some." Legolas took the bag and laid it beside his own. "I thank you for your gift."

After a moment of hesitation, Elrohir extended another smaller bag. "From my father. He wishes you and the child all the best in the world. He wishes you to know that you can always find refuge in Rivendell despite the differences that have become between you both."

Legolas felt the heaviness of gold in the bag and shook his head. "I cannot allow you to give me money."

"It is a gift. If you do not take it for yourself, think of the child. He deserves to be warm and fed each night. He deserves to have you care for him each day instead of barely seeing you while you slave away to make a few coins."

"I will still have to work. No matter how much money is in this, it will not last indefinitely." Legolas slipped the bag into his own satchel.

"Then perhaps you can work less." Elrohir smiled and laid a warm, friendly hand on Legolas's shoulder. "Do you need any help before I depart?"

"Would you take my bags to the stable and fasten them to my horse? I need to get Aragorn ready." Legolas motioned to the pouch on the bed.

Elrohir chuckled and the soft tan of his skin crinkled with laugh lines. "I remember when you made that contraption for Gilraen all of those months ago. I thought it would never hold a baby."

A wan smile crossed Legolas's face as he lay the infant down and slipped the straps over his own head and tied another one around his waist so that the pouch was held securely right next to his chest. "Take care of Gilraen. The loss of her son will hurt her." Legolas slipped the infant inside the pouch and smiled with satisfaction at the perfect fit as he pulled the drawstring shut.

"You know I will," the half-elf replied softly. Elrohir picked up the bags and departed from the room.

Legolas paused to look around his room, one hand absently stroking Aragorn's smooth brow. Then he picked up his weapons and left the room, firmly closing the door behind him.

Elrohir had secured his bags to the horse and was waiting beside the beast when Legolas arrived at the stables. "My father and I both wish you to settle near Rivendell in case our aid ever becomes a necessity. May the Valar keep you safe on your journey, my friend. I will remember you in my songs," he clasped Legolas's shoulder and smiled warmly. "I know if Elladan was here he would wish the same."

"Thank you." Legolas swallowed with a thick click and inclined his head. "May the Valar protect you as well."

No more words passed between them as Legolas mounted the horse and turned the beast towards the open road. Legolas did not look back until he was passed the outer gate and then it was only a brief glance over his shoulder.

Then he turned and spurred his horse onwards with a quick look to the infant sleeping against his chest. "I will call you Estel," he whispered to the small, rounded ear. "For you will bring hope to this dark world. Even if they cannot see it. And, one day, I will tell you of your heritage. One day, when you are ready."

Legolas took the reins more firmly in his grasp and urge the horse to a faster pace. A new era of his life had now opened up before him.

* * *

**Author's Note: ** Thanks for all of your reviews! And for all of those waiting for an update on "Flowers" - the next few chapters are almost done and I'll probably start posting them at the end of this week. Thanks to all of those who have emailed me with encouragement to keep writing that story! 

Also, much thanks to my beta, Ashley (aka, PastIsPrologue). She caught all my stupid errors for which I am extremely grateful.


	4. The First Steps

**Title: **Wherever the Surge May Sweep

**Author: **Partheon

**Rating: **PG-13 – for violence, adult themes, darkness, blood, and overall angstiness.

**Warnings: **very AU and fairly dark. And, for those who don't know, I make no promises for a happy ending. While I am not a slash writer, there are some unrequited slash issues if you really, really, really squint.

**Summary: **In a much darker Middle-earth than the one we know, the lines between good and evil are blurred as Legolas and Estel are taken down a very different path.

**Disclaimer: **I own none of the recognizable characters in this story—they all belong to JRR Tolkien and New Line.

* * *

_**Chapter Three: The First Steps**_

_The distance is nothing; it is only the first step that costs.  
----------Madame Marie Anne du Deffand_

Midday sun touched the wooden houses and vendor's carts and a heavy shimmer The baby squalled when the midday sun of the third day began to brightly tinge his face pink. Tiny, pudgy legs kicked out at Legolas's chest and rolling cheeks squished fatly against the open mouth and nose. He wanted milk – wanted the comfort of a warm cradle and a heated room. And Legolas had neither. The milk was gone – the bottle and skin hanging dryly behind him.

Frayed and weary, Legolas had cooed and rocked and begged the babe as the horse plodded onward. Soft strands of hair slid smoothly against his fingers as he rubbed his hand over the small head and wrapped the blanket tighter around the flailing body.

He noticed absently the quietness of the land around him – a hot, dry, quiet that seeped up to the blue sky and across to the shimmering horizon. The quietness – save for the child wailing in his arms. Even the clopping of the horse was quiet; muffled by dry puffs of dirt.

"We are far away," he said, ridiculously happy when the sobs faded into wet hiccups. "We have no one but each other." He watched wetness seep from the gray eyes and wiped it away with his forefinger. "I promise I will protect you."

Then he raised his eyes – peering through the bright, dusty air – and saw the thick black walls of Archet.

"That," he said to the babe, arm tightening just a little. "That will be our home. Our home until your destiny comes to us."

The babe snuffled wetly against his palm, eyes drooping – fast asleep by the time Legolas rode through the tall, heavy gates that opened up into Archet.

The city, he knew, was one of the last remnants of the great kingdom Rhudaur. He could remember a time before the darkness of Greenwood when these plains were teeming with people and commerce ran heavily along the Old Forest Road. However, that was a long time ago. After the return of the Darkness, the people of Rhudar had been driven to seek shelter in the mightier cities of the South. Now, all that remained of Rhudar was Fleen and the out skirting villages of Archet, Staddle, and Combe.

Emotions – tumbling and indiscernible – deeply welled in Legolas's middle. He could feel the eyes of mortals resting oppressively upon him. He wanted to tell them to stop staring – but why should they? His kind had not ventured from the safety of their secluded havens for many long years now. They had every right to stare – to gawk – to point.

"I need a place to stay," he told the burly militia man that halted him in the middle of the road. "Please – I have money. And my," he stopped, looking down at the peacefully quiet face. "My son. My son needs food and a dry bed. I do not want to cause any trouble," he continued as two wide men joined the first.

Brawny muscles flexed before Legolas's face – a show of misplaced strength. Legolas wondered mildly if the man knew his thick, sinewy neck could be snapped with a flick of the elf's wrists.

"Elves don' come here of'en," the man said. "Are you running?"

"No one is pursuing," Legolas replied evenly. Dust clouded across the door front of a dirty building and a pathetically skinny child was tumbling into the street – dirty face grinning merrily. Legolas wondered if Estel would ever look so _ragged_.

The men moved from in front of his horse, posturing with harshly defined jaws in an attempt to cause fear – but Legolas did not even notice. There was just a deep sense of relief that he would not need to fight _yet_.

"There's an inn," one tonelessly offered to Legolas's mild surprise. "Follow the road an' you'll see it. Called Bartmelou's Inn." And the three men faded seamlessly into the dirty, uncouth background – outlines of grime and gritty determination.

Legolas breathed, the dust cloaking the back of his throat and stinging on the insides of his teeth. "Thank you," he said – though he did not know if they heard or cared. "Soon you can rest," he murmured in his native tongue to the child. The thick flanks of the horse surged beneath his calves as the beast moved forward down the street "Soon we will be home."

A serene tenderness swept over Legolas as he watched the child's face scrunch in a gigantic yawn. There was a warm spot on his chest where the small child tried to burrow closer. A tiny bit of sweat glowed wetly across the tiny forehead as Estel once again slipped into sleep.

He was a beautiful child, Legolas though for not the first time. There was the best of Arathorn in him – and the best of Gilraen in him. Perhaps the combination would be enough to keep on the road of righteousness for the years to come.

But the thought left as the worn sign declaring Bartmelou's Inn and Pub swung overhead. Faded letters were painted in an ugly red across deep furrows and scorch marks.

Doubt settled in Legolas's lungs and he contemplated moving – contemplated not staying in _this _dirty town. The prince – the king – the royal blood in him rebelled at the though of staying here – even for a short time. Nothing could make him live in or visit such absolute squalor.

Then Estel murmured, rosebud mouth opening and closing as if sucking a bottle, and the answer came. Estel was hungry. And Legolas suddenly did not care that he could see every speck of dirt imbedded into the thin, wobbly walls. The uncomfortable tingles at the thought of touching something like this faded. He drew a breath – filling his lungs and gathering the fortitude that had held him steady through thousands of years – and waked inside as he left his horse tied to the slim rail just outside the door.

Bright sunlight chased Legolas in but then departed as the door swung shut, leaving the elf in the dim, sputtering light of the inn. The tremendous urge to plug his nose intensified to painful proportions as he moved into the room.

Unwashed mortals squeezed against each other, gaping mouths working as they chewed their food. Legolas watched – and vowed to always keep Estel clean and his manners impeccable

He was strangely glad for the lighting however. No one paid him a second glance as he walked the several feet to the stained bar. He grimaced again when the dirtied bar rubbed dirt onto his clothes. "I am looking for the owner," he said as loudly as he dared. "I wish to stay in a room."

A large potbelly swung towards him, forcing Legolas to take a quick step back. Red flushed cheeks filled Legolas's sight and a jovial, balding man hurried forward to grasp Legolas's cringing hand. Legolas's only thought for several moments was the lack of flushed cheeks among the elves. "I am the owner. Barmelou's my name. A room you say? Well, sir you are in luck because today we have one room available for the low price of two gold pieces. Free dinner at night – I make that. And my wife makes breakfast in the morning."

"Actually," Legolas cut in, smoothing one finger over the delicate, soft ear of the child. "I was hoping for some milk. For my son. He is hungry." The dull, smoky air burned Legolas's tongue and he swallowed. "Please – I have money. I can pay whatever it costs – for the room and for the milk."

The fat cheeks softened, jiggling as the man sighed. "Your son, you say? Well, I think I can scrounge something up for the young one." He bustled through the bar, deep voice shouting above the din.

Legolas sagged, drooping against the nearest wall. "You will get food soon," he soothed the infant. "Just wait a little longer."

The gray eyes blinked tiredly and the tiny mouth opened once in a yawn before sliding shut again. Small legs kicked in the swaddling blanket and the beginnings of a whimper escaped him.

"Shhh," Legolas bounced the child slightly. "Just wait a little longer and you will get food. Just a little longer."

He looked up to see Bartmelou cutting a wide swath through the crowd as he back towards him. A bottle filled with milk was in one hand.

"This do?" he asked, shuffling the warm bottle into one of Legolas's open hands. "Had the wife heat it up so it should be about right."

Legolas wrapped his hand around the smooth glass, feeling the permeated warmth. "Yes, thank you." He shifted the baby and tried to dig into his pouch for a few coins.

"Don't bother about that now. You'll pay tomorrow with the room. Now, let me get you a key." He reached deep into his apron pocket and produced a large brass key. "Last room in the hallway upstairs."

Legolas nodded his thanks and jerked his chin in the direction of the door. "My horse…"

"I'll have a boy take care of it. You just go on and take care of that boy of yours. Pretty small, ain't he?"

"Four days old," Legolas murmured as he slowly walked away. "Thank you."

* * *

Bartmelou was a man whose girth more than made up for his small stature. His shiny, bald head and crooked teeth were often displayed in his wide smile. His face seemed to consist of huge brown eyes and even larger ears. A quick wit, a loud laugh, and an open heart – not to mention an incredible gift for weaving the finest of tales in all of the land – made Bartmelou almost as popular as his inn. 

So it was of no surprise to anyone when they learned that the two newest acquisitions to their town – an elf and an infant – were staying in one of his inn's rooms. According to the people who knew – namely Bartmelou's sharp-tongued wife – they were staying there until the old house on the outskirts of town the elf had bought from Bartmelou was repaired.

That night, Bartmelou's pub at the front of the inn was more crowded than usual as people craned their necks desperately to get a glimpse of the wondrous creature that was now in their town. And he seemed that he was intending to _live _here as well. Imagine that!

Bartmelou was very proud that he had been the first – and only person – to talk to the elf. He bustled to and fro amongst the tables, sharing his experiences with a great deal of his own commentary.

He was a true elf, Bartmelou would whisper. Tall with hair the color of the sun. Piercing blue eyes – and they were a blue that could not be described by mortal means, the innkeeper would hasten to add – set in a face that seemed to be crafted by the most delicate of porcelain. _And_ – the aging shop owner would add – the elf glowed, like some fairy; a light seemed to fill the air around him. Not just any regular light, but a pure, sweet light that made you feel all fuzzy inside when you looked at it.

Yes, the elf bought the house, he would say. And, yes, he seems to be taking up residence here. But, no, he did not know why the elf was not in the regular elvish settlements. However, he would say then, old Bartmelou has a suspicion to share with you… And he would go on to weave a fantastic tale of murder, intrigue, and forbidden love – all surrounding the beautiful elf and wee babe the elf carried so protectively against his chest.

From that first tale he told, a whole strew of legends came into being in the following days and weeks. The elf – people whispered – was a prince of an elven realm who fell in love with a mortal woman. His father had disapproved of the union and had banished both of them to the wilds. The mortal woman had become pregnant and had died giving birth to a son. Overcome by grief, the elf had buried her body and had then ridden away to make a new life for him and his son.

Bartmelou would wink as he finished his tale and move onto the next table, offer another glass of ale – for a price, of course – and weave his magic tale.

* * *

The next morning, Bartmelou and his two grown daughters were busy scrubbing the ale-stained tables with rough brushes while Bartmelou's wife made some breakfast for the few who would venture to the pub at that time in the morning. A couple of single men sat at the dark corner tables and an old man who was staying at The inn sat near the blazing fire. 

When Legolas came down the stairs with Estel cradled in his arms, all did their best to study him without actually _looking _at him. The blond elf had washed the dust from his face and combed out his hair until the golden strands fairly glimmered in the musty sunlight. His movements were no longer slow and weary from his travels and his steps were filled with the casual grace of a dancer. Bartmelou's oldest daughter dropped the cup she had been holding and the younger one clutched at the table and did an exaggerated impression of fainting.

Legolas noticed none of these things and glided across the mostly vacant room to the counter. "Do you have milk?" he asked Bartmelou's wife softly. "For the child. I – I ran out."

She was a large woman with wrinkles folded around her green eyes. Brown hair had thick streaks of silver that framed her wide face. Her hands were large with ragged knuckles and hardened fingers. Thin lips and a hawk nose added to the domineering expression that she normally wore. But when the woman's weathered eyes rested on the soft features of the sleeping child as he rested against the elf's chest, a smile cracked the stony exterior of her face. "I will warm some up right away."

A relieved look crossed Legolas's face that reached all the way up to make his blue eyes glow. "Thank you. Of course I can pay. How much…?"

"Do not worry. He is a beautiful child." Her eyes dropped to the child again and one hand moved slightly as if she wished to stroke that dark hair that fell so adorably across the infant's pale forehead. But she just smiled again and bustled off to the back of the kitchen.

Under the guise of making sure his guest was happy, Bartmelou hurried up with a large grin on his face and one hand outstretched. "Good morning. Good morning. I trust you slept well?"

Legolas took the dirty hand and did not look at the grime surrounding the fingernails. "I did. You have a fine establishment."

Bartmelou made a pooing motion with his hands but his chest puffed with obvious pride. "I assure you we do make sure our guests are well looked after. I trust you will be staying here until the house is finished?"

"That was my intention. You said it could be fixed within the week." The elf moved towards a nearby table and lowered himself into the wooden seat. "Is there many repairs to be done?"

Uninvited, Bart plopped himself in the chair across from the elf and sprawled his stumpy legs out underneath the table. "Nah. Just a few little places to be patched up on the ceiling and a couple windows to be redone. The furnishings are all in tip-top shape. You won't be disappointed, Master…uh…"

"Greenleaf," Legolas supplied, his gaze focused on the slumbering infant. "No, I hope I will not be."

"Beautiful house, it is. Belonged to my grandmother – may Eru rest her beloved soul – and when she died she left it to me. Obviously, I live here at the inn so that house has sat empty for many a year. Right fine bargain you got, Master Greenleaf." He looked up when his wife came from the kitchen carrying the bottle of milk. "Ah, and here's breakfast for the wee one."

Legolas took the bottle with a nod of his head. "Thank you," he murmured and looked up at the woman from underneath his dark lashes.

She fluttered for a moment and her cheeks reddened. "You're welcome," she replied at last and there was a choked quality to her voice. Then she hurried away, wiping her hands on her apron.

Bartmelou contented himself to sit and watch quietly as the elf began to feed the child. Finally, when the silence was too much for a man of his great verbal skills, he began to talk. "So…" he drew the word out but Legolas did not look up from the child, "is the wee one yours?"

The blue eyes were almost gray with emotion when they darted up to look at Bartmelou. Legolas hesitated, his arm tightening a little bit around the child. "He is… in a manner of speaking, yes, he is mine." Then he fell into silence and turned his full attention on the child.

Bartmelou hummed quietly and stroked his chin with two stubby fingers, remembering the tale he had woven the night before. "Not married, were you?" he asked when he thought a sufficient amount of silence had passed.

A long silence followed the question and Bartemlou was about to lean forwards and ask again when the low, dulcet tones of the elf answered.

"No." The child had emptied the bottle of milk and Legolas set it on the table with a soft thunk. "I must go. Give your wife my gratitude." He stood and gave Bartmelou a solemn smile.

The innkeeper stood up, as well, slightly desperate to keep the elf in _his_ inn. "Where will you go? I assure you, everything you may have need of can be found right here at my inn."

Legolas quirked a dark, elegant eyebrow at the human before his face relaxed into the normal, serene expression of the elves. "I have need of a small job that I may work at a few hours."

The thin mouth scrunched in thought and Bartmelou rubbed his chin. Could he let the elf – the talk of the town – go to another's establishment? He imagined everyone crowding around the elf's boss, asking questions and ignoring poor Bartmelou. That could not be allowed to happen.

"I have a stable," he said quickly, moving around the table. "I take in all the unbroken horses from as far away as Rohan and train 'em to be saddle ridden before selling them to the good citizens of this town and many others." His large brown eyes narrowed slightly. "The elves, I hear, are fabulous with horses and I have need of an extra hand. Does the job suit your liking?"

Deep blue eyes framed by thick, dark lashes widened in surprise and Legolas glanced down at the child. "May I bring the child with me? I do not want to leave him alone."

Bartmelou imagined nights of storytelling and many glasses of ale his customers would consume and nodded vigorously. "Of course, of course. My wife loves children and since ours are all grown, she'd be more than happy to care for your wee one." He waddled over to the elegant elf and threw his arm around the slender shoulders – even though he had to stand on his tiptoes to do it. A huge smile split his face, stretching from ear to ear, and revealing his crooked teeth. "Let's go discuss your pay."

* * *

The house was built with stone. Smaller stones were held together by thick tar in some parts of the walls and in others, thick slabs were set against one another. There was a wooden arbor hanging over a thick, oak door that only squeaked a little when Legolas pushed it open. 

With four rooms, the house was not overly large but Legolas thought it perfect for an elf and a young human child to inhabit. One room, he decided, would be Estel's when the young human got older. For now, Estel would sleep in the cradle Legolas had purchased from Archet's carpenter that was placed next to Legolas's own bed.

Legolas laid Estel down in the cradle and stepped back to survey the small room. One window opened up towards the West and Legolas could see the beginning pinks of the sunset covering the paisley blue sky.

He brushed a hand over Estel's small back and felt the fluttering heartbeat. When he was sure the young human was deeply lost in slumber, Legolas pulled back and walked into the room that would be their kitchen and eating area.

A single wooden table sat in the middle of the room with two chairs on either side. Against the far wall, a fireplace was crafted out of large, smooth stones that glowed with polish. Next to that, was a shelf – tiled with smooth green stones. Above it, wooden cabinets were fastened to the wall and – according to Bartmelou – Legolas knew would find eating utensils.

Archet was a good place to settle, Legolas decided wearily. Close enough to Rivendell for protection – if it came down to that – and off the beaten road enough so that casual hunters would never find them.

Saruman would search for Aragorn, he knew. If the wizard did not believe the claims by Elrond that the child had been stillborn – which Legolas knew would happen with the wizard's gift of sight – then the evil Maia would hunt throughout all of Middle-earth for the heir of Isildur and attempt to poison Aragorn's mind to wickedness as he had done with Arathorn's.

Legolas would not allow that to happen. Yes, he had failed with Arathorn. But now he had learned from his mistakes and he would not make them again. Aragorn would grow to be strong and true and pure. Aragorn would be the savior of the land and Legolas would sacrifice his life to see it done.

His fingers felt the graininess of the table and he sank down into one of the chairs, eyes dully staring out the window at the greenish-yellow grass that stretched from his house to the line of trees.

Four days. Four days had gone by since Legolas had… He folded his arms on the table and lowered his forehead to rest on them, taking a deep breath through his mouth. Spots flashed before his eyes as he dug them deep into his forearms – he could not see Arathorn's face that way.

Sleep had been elusive these last days. Images of Arathorn's rage-twisted face blended with the face that Legolas knew so well. He would see the gray eyes – sparkling like silver dust in the sunlight – the wide smile that caused crinkled dimples to appear around the jaw line and eyes, and dark hair, long and wild in the wind. And, then, just as quickly the living, laughing face would be replaced with the half-lidded gaze and slack mouth – so innocent and beautiful in death.

The pads of his fingers dug into the grainy wood and Legolas bit his lip. How could he have failed? Had he been too cocky? How could he have not seen the darkness that reached for his young friend with a voracious appetite?

Now, as he looked back at the last years he had spent with Arathorn, Legolas could remember incidents that should have given him some warning as to what the final outcome would be.

He remembered flashes of irrational anger that were always quickly apologized for. Times flashed before the elf's eyes when Arathorn had asserted his position as leader – a need to dominate and to assert his control. He recalled the lust Arathorn had for opulence and beauty – the desires that were never satiated. And he remembered the fear echoing through his heart the first time their mental bond had been blocked by the darkness.

But there had been the good times too. There had been the times Arathorn had gone out of his way to help someone in need – times when Legolas had been amazed at the quickness of his mind and the extent of his battle skills. Arathorn's eyes when he gazed upon his wife until the wickedness had robbed even that.

Legolas's shoulders shook and gasps escaped his lips – but he did not cry nor did he make a sound. Dry sobs wracked his entire body as the sun continued to set behind the western hills. At last, he fell into a fitful sleep and he dreamed of Arathorn's smile and laugh – of Aragorn growing up to be a strong young man.

* * *

The night was cold and the silvery moonlight that managed to peek through the clouds reflected off of the few inches of snow that had fallen in the past week. A bitter wind swept over the clearing that contained Legolas's house and the river swirled darkly by. Clouds blanketed the sky and as the night progressed, a hint of snow began to waft down to the earth. 

In Legolas's house, a fire was burning furiously in the hearth, casting an orange glow about the room and reflecting off of the tightly shut windows. A large black pot hung over the fire and water was close to boiling inside.

Legolas sat on his bed, holding the five-month-old child swaddled in soft blankets close to his chest. His face was paler than usual and his hands were trembling just a little as he slowly rocked Estel, crooning wordlessly. In contrast to his normally perfect hair, the blond locks were tangled and the braids were mussed. The dark blue in his eyes had turned to a grayish blue that swam with uncertainty and fear.

It had started a few days prior when Estel had come down with a runny nose and a slight fever. Legolas had been around humans too much to be overly concerned and had made sure Estel had gotten lots of rest and fluids, assuming the little illness would go away on its own. Things had been going well and Estel had even seemed to be getting a little better. Until tonight, that is.

Estel had developed a slight cough early in the evening and by the midnight hour, he had been wheezing with every breath as harsh coughs had made his tiny ribcage strain upwards. He had begun crying as the pain in his lungs became worse – which of course just aggravated his coughing.

Not as gifted as Lord Elrond in healing, Legolas did have some amount of natural ability that had been cultivated in lessons through out the years. While he was by no means endowed with great healing powers, Legolas could heal small injuries as well as mend some larger ones.

Now, as he gently rocked Estel on the bed, Legolas poured as much of himself into the tiny body as he could. He urged the closing air passageways to open and let fresh oxygen into struggling lungs. The blond elf willed the lungs to inflate again and again with air. And he eased the pain Estel was experiencing with every breath the child drew inwards.

As time when on, however, Legolas was becoming increasingly unsure how much of an effect his efforts were having on the child. Estel's lips were turning a light shade of purple and the normally rosy cheeks turned to a sickly pale color that served to tie Legolas's stomach in several knots. Each set of hacks left the infant weaker than before as tears streamed down the scrunched up face.

The coughing eased for a moment and Estel lay limply in Legolas's arms, crying softly.

Legolas murmured soothingly and danced his fingers over the sore throat, expending some healing energy to ease the pain he found there. "Come, little one," he whispered as he stood to his feet. "The water has probably boiled by now."

His steps were silent and quick as he crossed the dark room and stopped before the boiling pot. After a breath of hesitation, he laid Estel down on the table and used metal tongs to scoop the steaming sheets from the water.

The closet door was only a few steps away and Legolas opened the door with is free hand and pulled out the clothing that had been stored there. Once the closet was empty, the elf carefully hung the sheet across the vacant rack.

Firelight turned his fair skin into the color of burnish gold as he strode back across to the table and took the baby Estel into his arms, comforting the plaintive cries with his mellow singing voice. Closing the closet door, he slid down the wall so he was leaning against the back of the closet with Estel pulled to his chest.

Inside the closet, the air was thick with steam as the boiling water clinging to the sheet evaporated into the still air. There was no light in the enclosed area. But after a few blinks, Legolas could see clearly the reddened face of Estel and the small mouth gaping open as tiny breaths were drawn into the tortured lungs.

Evaporated water clung to Legolas's face in tiny droplets and rolled down his face, making him uncomfortably feel like he was sweating. Now and then, he had to free one hand from rocking Estel to brush the moisture from his eyes.

The night dragged on, punctuated by Estel's wheezing coughs. When the steamed sheet began to cool and dry, Legolas would replace it with a fresh one and place the old one back into the cauldron.

Often, the elf would begin singing in his clear tenor some of the songs that had been sung to him starting when he was a child as small and as young as Estel was now – thousands and thousands of years ago. The soft music – combined with the moisture of the air around them – seemed to comfort the infant and the pitiful cries would calm slightly as the child was able to draw more oxygen into his lungs.

Finally – as sunlight began to filter through the clouds in the east and the falling snow began to fade away – Estel's breathing eased enough for Legolas to feel comfortable leaving the closet. Still gently singing, Legolas stood and slipped from the closet and sat in front of the fire with a heavy sigh.

Estel's harsh sobs faded into hiccupping tremors and silent tears as the gray morning came to light up the house. Estel snuggled into Legolas's chest and took deep, slow breaths as peace and sleep finally came to the tired mind.

When Estel was fully asleep – his breathing deep and even – Legolas retreated to the bedroom and lay down upon his own bed with Estel curled up in his arms. The emotional and physical exhaustion soon swept over him and Legolas lapsed into a deep reverie that lasted well into the next day.

Outside, the cold wind howled across the plain and snow drifts built against the trees. Animals retreated deep into their dens and the birds took to the barns of the townspeople. But in Legolas's house, the atmosphere was warm and comforting as Legolas and Estel slept on.

_To be continued…_

_

* * *

_

**Preview of the next chapter: **

Kneeling quickly, Legolas felt for the first man's pulse. When he found a weak, erratic one, the elf placed his hand on either side of the man's head and snapped the thick neck with a flick of his wrists.


	5. The Long, Lingering Look

**Title: **Wherever the Surge May Sweep

**Author: **Partheon

**Rating: **PG-13 – for violence, adult themes, darkness, blood, and overall angstiness.

**Warnings: **very AU and fairly dark. And, for those who don't know, I make no promises for a happy ending. While I am not a slash writer, there are some unrequited slash issues if you really, really, really squint.

**Summary: **In a much darker Middle-earth than the one we know, the lines between good and evil are blurred as Legolas and Estel are taken down a very different path.

**Disclaimer: **I own none of the recognizable characters in this story—they all belong to JRR Tolkien and New Line.

* * *

_**Chapter Four: The Long, Lingering Look**_

_Nor cast one longing, ling'ring look behind.  
- __Thomas Gray_

Streaks of lightning shot across the smooth, dark surface of the palantir and the orb fairly buzzed with contained energy. Images swirled behind the jagged dashes of light and dark clouds would periodically fill and then disperse from the face of the seeing stone. The future could be unlocked here – if the right hands held the palantir.

Long white hair was blowing in a non-existent wind and painfully thin hands were stretched inches from the surface of the palantir. Saruman's eyes were delicately closed and his mouth was pressed into a tight line.

Elrond had said the child had died – the son of Arathorn had been stillborn. Angry light leaped from the stone and caressed the long fingernails. It was not so. The son of Arathorn was alive – but he was lost.

Cheek muscles tightened and the fingers flexed. Then, with a cry of rage, Saruman wrenched his hand from the top of the stone. He staggered backwards, fairly falling into the wretched black chair that served as his throne.

Shoulders hunched and hands folded deeply into his robe, Saruman's eyes darkened and narrowed. Too much work had been done to allow Elrond to hide this… this _child _from him. Too much work…

He had extended his powers over the palantir with the help of Sauron. He had reached into the very minds of the two most power elves in Middle-earth. He had planted their dreams and visions of the darkness that would come if Aragorn was allowed to fall into his hands. He had twisted their thoughts until the son of Arathorn's fall seemed eminent – unavoidable.

From the middle of the room, the palantir roared – breaking the silence of the dank chamber – and spit sparks upwards in the still air.

Cringing back in his throne, Saruman shook his head. No, of course he had not done it _alone…_ Sauron had helped…

Lightning bolted upwards and tumultuous clouds raged just beneath the glossy surface of the fickle seeing-stone.

Sauron had given him, Saruman, the power to fulfill these deeds. The white wizard cast a nervous glance at the palantir. Sauron deserved all the credit for _anything _that was accomplished through Saruman's hands. Because Sauron was the great lord of Middle-earth… the _greatest_ king of Middle-earth.

The palantir seemed to settle itself, turning to a cool, smooth black

Saruman had hoped that fear would compel the elves to abandon the babe in the wilderness. Of course, then he could take the child and raise him – mold him – to be the ruler Saru… _Sauron_ wanted him to be.

Arathorn had fallen so easily.

Gleefully, the wizard remembered the first meetings – when Arathorn had been distrustful and rash against the one he viewed as evil. He had watched the wizard with wary eyes for a long time. Then Saruman had weakened his defenses with kind words and soft platitudes. He had whispered sincerities into the man's open ear and he had smiled at all the right times.

He had looked into the man's mind and seen the weaknesses and he had exploited every single one of them. He had taken the hidden insecurities and showed him how those he loved were responsible. He had twisted the bond the young man shared with that elf and had turned it into something perverse. He had seen the small doubts – fears for the future – and turned them into outright paranoia that threatened to consume the man's thoughts, driving him to the brink of madness itself.

And, then, when the young man's mind had been weak with confusion and fear, Saruman had extended a black cloud over the mind, shrouding the bond and keeping Legolas out. He had tightened the knots at the edges and thrown the key away.

How proud he had been to see the soft gray eyes become bitter with malice – the congenial young man transformed into a servant of utter darkness.

After that, how easily the young man had believed the wizard's words. When Saruman had told him Legolas was a weak mentor – that the elf was holding him back – he had listened with open ears. When he had told Arathorn a twisted version of the events surrounding his father's death – the man had bought the ploy. When he had whispered in Arathorn's ear of the deceitful trickery of Legolas – how the elf had seduced Gilraen and taken her to his bed – the young man had lapped it up and turned on Legolas with a ferocity that surprised even the wizard. He had been all that the wizard wanted.

Saruman the White had stolen that meddlesome elf's protégé right out from under his very nose.

And in turn, the wizard grumbled, the elf had stolen him right back. He had sent the young man to the Halls of Mandos and word had it that the darkening veil had been lifted from the man's mind right before death – that he had looked into the eyes of his mentor and friend with love instead of malice. He had seen the light briefly, they said, for the last time.

Saruman liked to believe they were just rumors. He liked to believe that the young man had been his as the darkened soul had winged its way to the Halls of Mandos. It made him feel better.

But there was no sense dwelling on the past. Saruman drew his cloak around him and hunched deeper into the darkness of the chair.

The son of Arathorn must be found. There was no other recourse if Saruman's plans were to succeed. Legolas was responsible for the child's disappearance, the wizard was sure of that.

A dark scowl twisted the hateful features more. This would be the last time the elf ever interfered with a wizard's plans. Saruman would make sure that the elf's body was rotting in a crypt somewhere before the wizard allowed him to upset the future according to Sauron.

It would not be a hard matter to regain what the elf had stolen, the wizard consoled himself. Saruman tapped his fingers together. All he had to do was pay the right men the right amount of money.

* * *

Legolas wiped his dusty hands on a soft cloth as he walked towards the back kitchen of the inn. His blond hair was pulled back in a thick braid that went all the way down his back and his clothes were a little bit ragged around the edges.

He dropped the cloth to a small table and pushed open the door, relishing the warm draft of air that drifted from the interior. "Idella?" he called.

"In here, Legolas. Little Estel was quite hungry." Idella – Bartmelou's wife – had taken a liking to Legolas's young charge from the moment the elf had started working for her husband several months prior. Despite her reputation of having a sharp tongue, Idella had a loving, giving spirit which she bestowed upon all those who happened to win her favor. Estel had only needed to smile and gurgle just once to become her favorite little boy.

A smile twitched at the elf's lips as he peeked into the next room. "You do not have to feed him. I can do that when I get home. You have already done so much for us. The last thing I want to be is a burden."

She waved one hand in his direction. "Posh. Growing boys need food and I am happy to oblige." She slipped another spoonful of oatmeal into the eight-month-old's mouth. "He is such a nice boy too."

Estel caught sight of Legolas coming into the room and he clapped his hands with delight. His little, pudgy face broke into a wide grin that showed several partially grown teeth. "Le-las," he crowed happily, his arms reaching towards the elf in eagerness. "Le-las!"

A gentle laugh softened Legolas's features and the elf picked up the squirming child and bounced him a couple times against one hip. "Hello, little one. Were you good today for Idella?"

"Good," Estel repeated, one hand tangling in Legolas's braid. "Good."

Legolas gave an indulgent smile and turned to Idella. "He is at the stage where he mimics everything. I need to be getting home. Tell your husband that the new gelding should be ready for riding tomorrow."

"Of course, Legolas. I packed a basket of food for you. You are both much too skinny." She clucked her tongue and waved a finger under Legolas's nose while she handed over a large picnic basket to the elf's free hand. She hesitated a moment and then leaned close. "Legolas, my husband thought I should tell you – there were men here last night asking if an elf lived in these parts."

Legolas's breath caught in his throat and his grip tightened reflexively around Estel, causing the little one to squirm slightly, but the elf did not notice. "Did they learn anything?"

Idella pushed the strands of gray hair back to intermingle with the light brown ones. "You have become favored by many in this town. No one told them anything. But," she continued, "be on your guard, my friend. I saw them wandering about the town this morning still looking."

Jaw tightening, Legolas looked towards the main town road. "Thank you," he said quietly.

She nodded and laid a small, calloused hand on his arm. "Legolas, tell me, are they after you? Have you done something wrong?"

"No," he shook his head and his gaze rested on Estel, tenderness shining through his dark eyes. "I have something that they wish for desperately and I am not about to give it up to anyone." He glanced in the direction of the street again. "Idella, could you do me a favor? I would do nothing to endanger you," he hastily added.

A warm smile crossed her face. "I know you would not, young man." She scooped her cloak up from a nearby chair and fastened it around her shoulders before taking Estel so Legolas could do the same. "What would you have me to do?"

"Walk with me to the edge of town. They will think we are a family and not a lone man traveling with a child." Legolas drew the hood of his cloak over his blond hair and pointed ears.

She agreed and together they slipped into the waning sunlight as evening began to cover the sky. Stars had just begun to sparkle above. The doors of homes were being barred; candles and oil lamps were being lit by mothers as all prepared for supper.

Legolas held Estel partially under his cloak, humming a soft tune to keep the child quiet. His stance was casual and his gait was a stroll but his eyes darted to and fro across the dim, vacant street.

Idella walked close to his side, one arm brushing his, as she tugged her cloak tighter around her shoulders.

The sharp sound of a dog's bark echoed against the brown walls of the city. The dusky light barely revealed the dark outline of the door set into the protective wall that led to the safety of the trees. If he could only make it to the door… His feet sped up a little and his fingers wrapped tightly around the baby's soft thighs.

Just when he thought their escape from the town would be clean and quiet, footsteps sounded behind. Legolas breathed through his nose and rubbed a hand over the child's downy hair.

"Stop," a voice called. "A moment of your time if you would."

Legolas stopped and drew Idella to a stop with him as he handed her a drowsy Estel. "If this goes badly, make for the woods and wait for me there," he whispered before he turned. "Yes?" he asked in a clear, strong voice – a voice that indicated nothing more than he was a simple family man on a walk.

Two large men materialized from the shadows and drew near the slim elf. "Do you know of an elf that works at the stables? We saw you leave there…" Their voices trailed off and they leered.

Face impassive and eyes hooded, Legolas lifted his hands. _Do not anger them – just convince them there is nothing to see here…_ "An elf does work there but he left hours ago." He was vaguely aware of Idella backing away behind him, slipping closer to the door, and he silently prayed the Valar would hold them safely until he could come to them again.

"I think you're lying," the larger of the two hissed as he moved closer to where the elf waited silently in the middle of the street. "Now," a blade gleamed in the dull starlight. "Tell us where the elf is."

Legolas made sure his right foot was planted firmly in the dirt before he lashed out with the other foot, striking the man in the side of the neck.

He went down like a felled tree, the knife tumbling to the ground.

The other man moved as if to rush Legolas but never had a chance as Legolas brought his clasped hands down hard on the back of his neck, killing him instantly as the veins leading to the brain burst.

Kneeling quickly, Legolas felt for the first man's pulse. When he found a weak, erratic one, the elf placed his hand on either side of the man's head and snapped the thick neck with a flick of his wrists.

A breeze swept over the street, bringing with it the scent of the river flowing nearby. The sound of low voices came from one of the houses and the trees rustled ever so slightly. Nothing abnormal could be heard – nothing that would indicate that Legolas had just killed two men within a few seconds.

His gaze was drawn upwards towards where Idella stood clutching Estel, a mixture of awe and revulsion on her weathered, homely face as she stared fixedly at the two limp corpses. Legolas forced a soothing smile at her and stood slowly, one gentle hand reaching towards her. "Can you keep Estel at your house for awhile, Idella? I will not be long."

She blinked several times and began to walk as if in a daze back to the inn. Just before she passed Legolas, the woman turned to study the deceptively delicate face of the elf. "You killed those men," she murmured.

Legolas nodded as he hoisted the first of the men over his shoulder and began to walk towards the deep, swift river that flowed next to the town. "They were bounty hunters – cruel men. I do only what is necessary to protect those whom I love. I cannot allow anyone to take Estel away from me."

Idella nodded slowly and then trotted down the silent dirt road, the light blue of her dress making a stark contrast to the darkness of the night.

The small door in the wall that led directly to the river opened soundlessly under Legolas's pressure. As soon as he stepped from the protection of the city, the noise of rushing water filled his ears and he could smell the cool, sweet scent of the river just a few steps away.

He knew the river was fast – and deep: bodies thrown into its depths would be found days – weeks – later. And they would be found up to a hundred miles from the place they had been tossed.

Legolas stood at the edge of the icy water, hearing the rush and seeing the eerie reflection of the moon. The river was nothing more then a thick swath of white foam and dark water – ripples creating a distorted specter of the stars. For a moment he stopped there at the river's edge with the tide licking at the ground only a hand's length away. He took a deep breath and felt the wavering in his hands as the energy that had flowed through him rushing out of him just as quickly.

Two men had just been killed – slaughtered – by his hand in the name of protecting a young boy. And now Legolas would hide the bodies deep in the spirit of Ulmo, covering his sins.

"Ai, Valar," he whispered, stumbling a few steps back from the dark water and dropping the man to the ground. He had killed orcs and spiders and goblins by the dozens. But a man… the last man he had killed had been Arathorn – a sacrifice to Legolas's own failings.

With the great effort it took written on his delicate cheekbones, Legolas carefully tied a rock to the man's feet, using a long strand he store from the man's fine linen shirt. He hoisted the man over his shoulders and waded into the thick of the river. Then, with a great splash, the man was gone.

Legolas stood watching the glimmering moon in the water, praying to Ulmo to carry the bodies to the sea and hide them forever in his watery embrace. The Valar had laid this path before him – Lórien had given him the visions and confirmation – Ilúvatar had willed him to do this – then should not he be justified in taking the life of one of the Followers? Should not Ulmo honor his request and hide the sins – the sins the Valar forced him to commit – until the end of the days? His prayers were silent and the turmoil did little to disturb his placid face; but, he stood for a long moment on the bank, mind roiling about, before turning and slogging his way back to where the other man lay.

Whatever it took, he vowed, Estel would remain safe. He would not shy from his duty nor would he look back on Arathorn to what might have been. From this moment on, he would go onwards with the resolution of a great lion.

And he _would_ succeed.

* * *

As the last of the snows were piled in great drifts outside in the streets, the men and women of Archet gathered in Bartmelou's Inn and Pub to share in the drinks, food, dancing, and tales. The holidays were fast approaching and the jovial spirit increased the laughter – as well as the ale. Over in one corner, a fiddler plucked out a merry tune while a blond young woman plunked along on the piano.

Even a few children were perched at the tables, clutching glasses of milk and a queer non-alcoholic drink made from ginger and tree roots. Their small eyes were wide with fascination as they watched their parents indulge themselves. In one corner, a few small games had been set up for them and many of them congregated around playing pin-the-tale-on-the-warg and checkers.

Bartmelou was in his element. Bustling around among his guests, shaking hands and sharing in jokes, his wide smile never left his face and his skin was flushed to the tip of his large, floppy ears. Dark brown eyes were sparkling as he threw back yet another glass of ale and encouraged two young people – that, in his humble opinion, were just _perfect _for each other – to get on the dance floor.

Sitting at a relatively quiet corner table, Legolas laughed quietly and turned back to Idella. "Your husband seems to be enjoying himself," he remarked, his arms folded across his chest.

Her green eyes rested on the laughing figure of her husband with fondness. "He is quite the storyteller – he loves a chance to exploit that gift." She smiled and turned to the table's other occupant. "And Estel seems to be enjoying himself too."

At the sound of his name, the three-year-old looked up with a saucy grin and a face covered in molasses. "Pancakes," he crowed and held out a piece of his dinner for her to inspect. "Good! Good!"

This time, Legolas full-out laughed. "Here, Estel." He grabbed a cloth napkin from the table and began to clean off the sticky face. "I am never going to let you eat pancakes for dinner again."

"Pancakes!" Estel gave a toothy smile at the blond elf, displaying his baby teeth. "Pancakes!"

"Yes, pancakes," Legolas grabbed the little one's chin. "And you will get no more if you do not eat them like I taught you."

Estel gave Legolas a look of complete innocence, blinking slowly. His lower lip was trembling as if at any moment, he would give in to a deluge of tears. "No pancakes?" he asked softly, eyes lowering to the top of his highchair as he peeked at Legolas from beneath lowered lashes.

Legolas ruffled the dark hair. "Well, never mind. Just eat polite. Remember?" The elf pantomimed eating carefully for the child, his sea blue eyes twinkling with merriment. "That is the way you do it. Just like I taught you."

Dimples appeared in either one of Estel's plump cheeks as he grinned widely. "Le-las want pancake." And he proffered the piece to the elf, waving it right in Legolas's face. "Eat pancake," he ordered.

Happy to oblige, Legolas leaned forwards across the table and took the piece of molasses-drenched pancake from the utensil with his mouth. "Mhm," he rubbed his stomach, pausing only to send a wink in Idella's direction. "Good."

The old woman burst into peals of laughter. "Oh, you young ones warm an old woman's heart." She cast a speculative look at the way Legolas's hair glistened in the lamplight and the slight ripple of muscles beneath the linen shirt. "Of course, I wouldn't mind if you warmed a lot more."

Legolas pretended to look shocked. "Idella! You are married!"

She laughed again and just shook her head. "So, tell me, elf. Why did you venture to the town tonight? I know you do not normally like these," she looked around at the carousers, "gatherings."

Putting down the napkin he had been holding, Legolas suddenly seemed very quiet. "I had a favor to ask of you."

"Go on."

He took a deep breath and leaned forward, making the lamplight reflect off of his dark blue eyes. "I have never celebrated the Winter Festivals in the human fashion," he explained. "My people celebrate the solstice which comes some days after your day of festivities. But I feel Estel must learn of his people and I would ask you to teach me of the traditions of mortals."

Idella nodded. "Why now? You have lived among us for three years now. Three festivals have passed without this need to learn of them."

The elf watched Estel shovel another piece of pancake into his mouth. "Estel is old enough to remember them now. As he grows up, I do not want him to feel different then the other children."

Brown and gray strands had fallen over Idella's ears so she pushed them back. "Well, we place a tree in the middle of the house and usually decorate it with candles, apples, and bright pieces of paper. Really, very simple. And on the day of Festival, you exchange gifts with your family members." She shrugged.

Legolas knit his dark brows together as his eyes watched Estel slop up the molasses with his hands. "Why would you put candles and paper on a tree? Are not they beautiful as it is?"

"I suppose. But it is the spirit of the thing. A family will decorate their tree together."

A loud crash sounded behind them followed by a spurt of curses that had Legolas wishing he could reach over and cover Estel's ears.

Idella smiled and rose from the table. "I am needed back at work now. Enjoy your night." She patted Estel's head. "And good night to you, young man. Don't give Legolas too much trouble."

Estel waved a sticky hand in her direction. "Bye-bye, 'della!"

Watching Estel stuff the last bit of pancake into his mouth, Legolas rubbed his hands on his leggings and stood, reaching around to unfasten Estel from his highchair. The smells and the loud noises were beginning to give him a headache. "Come on, young one," Legolas said as he easily lifted Estel into his arms. "Time to travel home and go to bed."

With practiced hands, he laid Estel's small coat around the boy's shoulders and placed the knit cap atop the downy black hair. "It is cold tonight," he murmured to himself as he wrapped a wool blanket around the boy on top of all of his clothes before balancing the boy on one side of his hip.

The small child wrapped his arms around Legolas's neck and buried his grimy hands in the elf's hair. "Not tired," Estel protested even as he laid his head against the elf's shoulder. "Wanna stay."

Legolas threw a few coins on the table and made his way through the crowd of people. "Not this time, Estel." He waved his free arm at Bartmelou before he stepped from the oppressive warmth of the interior and into the cool night air.

Snow crunched beneath his feet and he tilted his head back to watch the stars twinkle against the black backdrop.

* * *

In Mordor, the day was sooty. Ash-filled clouds hung oppressively low over the slate rock and orange fires. In the midst of the barren landscape, a wicked black tower stood out as an ugly scar against the distant blue sky.

Atop the tower, flickering flames wreathed a huge eyeball as it ceaselessly roamed the land – searching, looking for the one thing that could restore the fallen Valar to his former state of glory.

Beneath him, orcs roamed here and there, fighting amongst themselves for a scrap of meat or a piece of shiny metal or a particularly cruel-looking weapon.

If the eyeballs could snort – well, let's just say that Sauron would have done that and much more to the multitude imbeciles that congregated below him under the guise of being an _army _– an army that was supposedly destined to crush the last resistance in Middle-earth and forever subjugate this land to Sauron's iron rule

Orangish light beamed from the lidless eye and cut through the dreary clouds. Soon – he promised himself – soon he would once again be the dark and powerful figure that had inspired such fear among even in the mightiest of the Eldar.

Gondor and Rohan were even now descending deeper into turmoil while Saruman worked to build his own army and to confuse the minds of the elves.

A spat of flames burst from one side of the eyeball and disappeared in the gloomy smoke. Saruman – the imbecilic fool – had become obsessed with the idea of taming Isildur's heir. The wizard had fantasies – Sauron huffed at the word – of recreating a baby full of light into a dark creature that would rule under their thumb.

Honestly, Sauron cared not one way or the other. If Saruman succeeded in bringing him a thoroughly debauched Isildur's heir then Sauron would accept the gift gladly. If he did not… well, Sauron had no qualms about doing away with the descendant of the man who had originally stripped him of his dark power. In fact, he found the prospect quite pleasant.

And, in the end, none of that mattered. Middle-earth – heart and soul – belonged to him. It was _destined _to grovel under the crushing press of his thumb – to be pressed face-first in the dust.

The flame-wreathed eyeball roared and a hiss of flames shot everywhere.

He and he _alone _was the Ruler – the king – of Middle-earth. He controlled the fates of all the sniveling beings that existed outside the walls of Mordor. And he reveled in their complete suffering.

Sauron was the Master of Fates.

* * *

**Preview of the Next Chapter**

"Le-las?"

Luminous blue eyes, still touched with fading panic, looked towards the kitchen and the four-year-old running – or trying to run anyway – towards him on stubby little legs, Cobi clutched in one arm.

Legolas smiled in relief and knelt on the floor to embrace the small boy. He felt the softness of dark hair against his neck, the imprint of a small face against his shoulder, and the warmth of tiny arms wrapped around his neck. "Estel," he greeted and he was proud when his voice did not waver as he inhaled the soapy smell that was distinctly the scent of the small child. "Why was the door unlocked?'

Estel lowered his face and as Legolas stood, he wrapped his legs around the elf's slim waist, Cobi pressed between them. "A man came."

* * *

**Review Responses**

**Viggomaniac: **thank you so much for your kind words. I have indeed written a lot of this story. On my computer, I am at page 219 with 120,000 + words and I am imagining there will be at least another 100 pages before the story is completely told, if not more. I've been reluctant to post quickly because I want to make sure there is a sense of continuity throughout. I'm always afraid that my muse is going to swing in another direction and I'll be left with a chapter or phrase near the beginning that no longer makes sense. However, after several rereadings, I have deemed the first few chapters safe to post as the plot is much too developed at this point to change much. I'm glad you find this AU believable, I worked so hard to try and make it so. I hope you continue to read and enjoy.

**LegolassQ:** my dear friend, it is good to hear from you again. The ending to this story I am not imagining will be too painful. I can promise that Middle-earth will be left in much of the same place as Tolkien left it at the end of the appendices – mine will just have taken a wider, darker, more circumvent route to get there. While there will be some major character deaths, Legolas and Estel will both be alive at the end of the story.

**Mariette: **your commentary made my day! This story was a wonderful labor to write and I am very proud of it – and it makes me even happier when others enjoy it too! Thanks for your comments on Legolas's character, I fought with him while writing this story many times, trying to understand who he was. It's nice to hear from another's perspective that I managed to get it. This story is already extremely long (200+ pages and 120,000+ words on my hard drive) and its been a challenge to keep the plot moving and continuous. These beginning chapters are really a setting up of characters, who Legolas and Estel are. In the next chapter, some more plot devices, etc. will be revealed. Thank you so much for your comments and I hope you continue to read and enjoy!

**Ciryaquen: **Thanks for commenting and staying with this story despite the time between updates, that means a lot. I hope that the wait for the next chapter will not be so long in coming. And, I'm sure Legolas would love to work for you. Hahaha.

**Until Next Time!**


	6. The Razor's Edge

**Disclaimer: **I own none of the recognizable characters in this story—they all belong to JRR Tolkien and New Line.

_**Wherever the Surge May Sweep  
by partheon**_

**

* * *

**

_**Chapter Five: The Razor's Edge**_

_For all on a razor's edge it stands.  
- Homer _

Gandalf the Gray leaned heavily on his staff as he squinted at the house sitting before him. Wind was whipping past his long hair – mussing the strands not held back by his hat and he absently brushed a few tendrils from his face.

Blue, windy sky that spoke of early fall had a few clouds speckled across it. The sunlight was cool and the air was crisp. Leaves were tumbling by as they fell from the deciduous trees that surrounded the clearing. The house was of an average sort with a stone chimney rising into the clear sky.

The old wizard grunted in something that almost sounded like annoyance to anyone that did not know him. He planted one hand on his hip as if his back pained him slightly and began to walk towards the house at a pace that belied the wrinkles lining his mouth and eyes.

He drew up in front of the wooden door and rattled the knob for a few seconds before he rapped noisily with his staff.

And he waited.

One thick, gray eyebrow raised and his mouth quirked slightly. "It is all right, little one. I assure you, Legolas is expecting me. Or he soon will be anyways." He directed his large blue-eyed gaze at the tiny, plump face peeping around a curtain in a nearby window. "There are many in this wild land you should not trust but I am one you should trust completely. I mean neither you nor the elf any harm."

The face disappeared from the window but there came no sound of the door unlocking. Instead, the wizard could hear the sound of little feet scampering quickly away from the door.

Gandalf pursed his lips into a frown and then turned to look at the swift moving clouds. "It is too windy for a Maia to be running about or much less sitting on some doorstep while warmth and comfort lay just an arm's reach away," he muttered to himself. "In that case…"

He turned back to the door and withdrew what looked to be a long hairpin from within the folds of his robe. Mumbling another grumpy curse, he partially leaned on his staff while inserting the hairpin in the tiny lock. His nose wrinkled up as he fished around the mechanism for a few moments. A couple twists with his wrist and the lock opened with a soft clack.

Grinning with satisfaction, he stowed the hairpin away. "I may be old but the touch is still with me." He tried the knob and the door swung inwards, revealing a vacant hallway. Ah, so the little one had hidden himself. Well, Gandalf was not so old that he could not appreciate a good game of hide-and-seek. And now that the blasted wind was not chilling his bones, Gandalf found himself in quite a jolly mood.

He leaned his staff against the nearby wall and placed his hands upon his hips, surveying the small house.

At the moment, it appeared he was in the living room. There were a few sputtering flames in a tiny fireplace and two worn arm-chairs were set close to it. A ragged throw rug lay on the wooden floor between the chairs and bitter dim sunlight streamed in from two windows.

A few steps further into the house and he found himself in the bright kitchen. Legolas kept the area quite tidy, he noted, glancing around the spotless area and neatly stacked jars. Fastidious elf.

When he heard a rustle coming from one of the backrooms, Gandalf swung around and a smile was twitching at the corners of his lips. "Ah, so this is where you go to hide from me."

The clean floor creaked softly underneath his heavy steps as the aged wizard approached the doorway. He paused, leaning against the frame and peering inside the relative darkness of the room.

A bed standing against the back wall and a desk and chair set below the single window were the only pieces of furniture in the room besides a low chest of drawers next to the bed. All were made of light brown wood and seemed to be very sparse and economical, Gandalf noted with a humph.

Following his instincts, he stole to the bed and lowered himself on to his knees. It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the shadows the bed created. "I see you," he said and his deep voice echoed in the confined space.

Huge gray eyes glimmered at him from the dark and small arms pulled a stuffed bear closer to his face. "Go 'way."

Gandalf sighed dramatically and lowered himself further onto the wooden floor. "You would throw an old man from your house."

The pale face was luminous in the shadows despite the smudges of dust. "Le-las said not let anyone in."

"I assure you, young one, I am not just anyone." Gandalf leaned his face closer, his heavily bearded cheek just brushing the planked floor. "Now, how about you come out of there?"

The little boy pulled the stuffed bear over his eyes and curled up into a tighter ball. "No."

Gandalf sighed heavily and pushed himself to sit upright against the bed, his large nose wrinkling from the sheer amount of dust beneath the bed. "Fine. Then you will not see my magic." Studiously ignoring the child, he withdrew his pipe and was soon puffing away.

A swaying, smoke pony was directed in the direction of the bed, followed by a ship and some laughing hobbits. There was the sound of something moving beneath the bed and Gandalf puffed a stuffed bear much like the one the little boy held, making sure to aim it so it drifted underneath the confines of the bed.

After several moments, the dusty face peeped out at him from underneath the bed. Gray eyes stared at him in amazement as another little bear appeared from the top of Gandalf's pipe and began drifting towards him. "Cobi?" he giggled and poked at the smoke representation of his toy.

The wizard smiled as the smoke dissipated underneath his probing fingers. "Come with me to the kitchen, little one, and I will show you more tricks. This floor is hard on an old man's bones."

Still looking a little wary, the little boy crawled fully from beneath the bed. He placed Cobi the bear on the ground and then levered himself to his feet, holding onto the bed frame for support. With one hand still on the bed, he reached down and grabbed Cobi tightly to his chest. "Who're you?"

"I am Gandalf the Gray," the wizard slowly rose to his feet, trying not to frighten the child anymore than he already had. "Legolas is a friend of mine."

"Le-las?"

"Yes, Le-las is a friend of mine." Gandalf smiled benevolently and motioned to the outer rooms. "Shall we?"

With one last skeptical glance, the little child toddled from the room, holding Cobi by one arm while the rest of the bear was dragging on the floor behind him. "Le-las comin'." He said when they had both reached the kitchen and he had turned to stare at Gandalf with round eyes.

"I have no doubt." Gandalf watched the toddler struggle for a moment to climb onto one of the chairs before he gave in and helped the child up. "And what is your name?" he asked when he was positive the boy would not tumble from the chair to the wooden floor.

"Esel," the boy answered, scooting to sit cross-legged.

"Esel?" Gandalf paused to think on that strange name for several seconds. "Do you mean Estel?"

Estel nodded vigorously at the sound of his name. "Esel."

Smiling at the child, Gandalf bent down so he was face-to-face with 'Esel.' "And how old are you?"

Four grubby fingers were held up in answer before the boy was tugging at Gandalf's robes. "Get Cobi." Smudges on the boy's face scrunched adorably as the boy wrinkled his brows tightly together. He motioned with one hand to the stuffed bear still lying on the ground where he had laid it while trying to mount the chair.

Gandalf bent and picked the inanimate creature with one hand. It had obviously seen a lot of loving, the wizard observed. Clumps of brown fur were missing from all over the plumped body and stuffing was seeping out of one loose seam on the bear's hind leg. Dark button eyes that must have gleamed brightly at one time were dull with grease and scratch marks. A faded bow was unraveling about the neck. Gandalf sighed at the bear's pitiful state and handed the bear over to the child.

Estel took Cobi in his outstretched arms and brought him up to rest against his chest. With his hands clasped about his bear, the child stared expectantly up at Gandalf. His lower lip quivered into a small pout and gray eyes blinked pleadingly. He waited while Gandalf sat down in the other chair before speaking. "Tricks?"

Gandalf sighed. How did the elf refuse this child anything? "All right." With a wink in Estel's direction, the wizard raised one wrinkled, dirty hand. He would start with a simple trick – but one he was assured would impress a small child. He closed his eyes and whispered a word. Actually, Gandalf did not _need_ to close his eyes or whisper a word… but it made for good show. The staff came whizzing into the room from where he had left it by the door and thunked solidly in Gandalf's outstretched hand. The wizard gave a hearty chuckle at his own cleverness and then turned to child.

Estel blinked and rested his chin on the top of Cobi's worn head. Another moment passed and he stifled a yawn in one of Cobi's ripped ears, gray eyes sagging in sleepy boredom.

Gandalf looked and the staff and then back at the decidedly unimpressed child. He hoped Legolas would get back soon.

* * *

The sky was darkening when Legolas stepped up the stone steps to the wooden door. He fished in his key for his pocket, balancing the basket from Idella in his other arm. Wearily, he slid the key into the lock and attempted to unlock the door.

When the locking mechanism simply allowed the key to turn instead of the customary click, Legolas's dark brows furrowed inwards and his mouth pursed inwards. Why had the door been unlocked?

Sudden fear exploded in Legolas's belly and sat like a lead weight there. Legolas fingered the smooth handle of his knife and wondered what he would do if… if he entered and found masked men destroying his home and hurting Estel - if he entered and found Estel dead on the floor – if Estel had been taken with no sign. His hand curled around the knife.

Take a deep breath. Legolas fingered the handle, marveling at the smooth, cold feeling the iron gave him. Balanced on his left foot, he threw the door open. He was only dimly aware of the door crashing into the opposite wall as he flung himself inwards, prepared to see anything.

He stood on the clean wood, hands trembling, as he surveyed the neat, peaceful living room. His lungs contracted with a whoosh and air flowed out of him and white fingers uncurled from the knife's handle. Carefully, he set the basket down besides the door and prepared to go in search of Estel.

"Le-las?"

Luminous blue eyes, still touched with fading panic, looked towards the kitchen and the four-year-old running – or trying to run anyway – towards him on stubby little legs, Cobi clutched in one arm.

Legolas smiled in relief and knelt on the floor to embrace the small boy. He felt the softness of dark hair against his neck, the imprint of a small face against his shoulder, and the warmth of tiny arms wrapped around his neck. "Estel," he greeted and he was proud when his voice did not waver as he inhaled the soapy smell that was distinctly the scent of the small child. "Why was the door unlocked?'

Estel lowered his face and as Legolas stood, he wrapped his legs around the elf's slim waist, Cobi pressed between them. "A man came."

Fear surged up into Legolas's heart and he tightened his hold on the boy. "What did he do?"

"He came and found me." Estel lifted his huge gray eyes to Legolas. "Please, don't be mad. I sorry."

"Shush. It is fine." Legolas ran a hand over the boy's neck and felt the bunched muscles. "Where is the man now?"

"I am here, Legolas."

The elf jerked his head up in the direction of the voice. Sky blue eyes went wide and the mouth fell open just a tad. "Mithrandir!" he cried. A genuine smile slid up over his cheekbones as he hastily executed a bow – a feat made even more difficult with the small child nestled in his arms. "I did not know…"

"Yes, Legolas. I have come. I was entertaining Estel here with a few magic tricks while we waited for your return." Gandalf's eyes alighted on the child and his smile turned grave. "We have much to speak of, young one."

Legolas looked down at the dark hair and the jaw line that reminded him so much of young Arathorn. "Yes, we do. But, first," he added a lighter tone to his voice, "I am sure you are both hungry. Idella packed a lovely food basket and I would hate to see it go to waste."

Gandalf folded his arms across his chest and raised one eyebrow at the elf. "Then let us eat. And then we will talk of many things."

* * *

Smoke curled from the fireplace and the sparks burst from withering logs. The orangish glow reflected across the room and shone in Legolas's river blue eyes as the elf stepped lightly into the room.

"Please, Mithrandir," Legolas lowered himself into the threadbare chair next to the fire and turned to look at the gray-bearded figure sitting in the other. "I would ask you to not smoke in my home."

Gandalf chuckled heartily at the elf's wrinkled nose but set down the pipe. "What will you do, I wonder, when that child of yours picks up the habit?"

"Valar willing – he will not."

"Oh, he will. I have no doubt of that." Another chuckle filled the room. "Is he in bed then?"

The elf smiled. "Estel is a good sleeper. I do my best to run him to exhaustion during the day so that my nights will be peaceful. When he was a baby, it was more difficult but now I find he drops off quickly."

"If I did not know better, I would say you were slipping some of Elrond's sleeping herbs into his milk."

Legolas made a face and maintained it for a moment before laughing in a low voice. He leaned back so his blond hair strewed out behind him on the chair. "Tell me, Mithrandir, my very old friend, how did you find me?"

Gandalf shrugged and tapped his now unlit pipe on the arm of the chair. "Oh. Here and there, I have asked after you. Elrond has kept a closer watch on you then you will ever know."

"I have known that eyes watch us." Legolas leaned his face close to the fire and studied the flickering flames. "They will not interfere unless absolutely necessary and they will do everything to protect the boy from harm. But if they try and touch him…"

A spark flew from the fireplace and both paused to watch it.

When Gandalf spoke, his voice seemed deeper than normal and the corners of his mouth had turned downwards. "Four years ago, word came to me that Arathorn's son had been stillborn and I was grieved within my heart. Then – within days of that tragic event – some news came to my wondering ears that Legolas, king of the late Greenwood, had left Rivendell, the only home he had known for hundreds of years, for parts unknown. Now, I find you here – four years later – with a four-year-old boy that you call Hope. A boy who happens to have the exact same eyes as his late father."

Gandalf turned to look at the stony elf – the firelight reflecting off the cool features of the elf's face made them look as if they were made of marble and not skin. "And I have never believed in coincidences."

Legolas turned in his chair, his eyes were blue ice chips in the marble mask. "And what would you do?" he asked, his steely words barely rising above the crackle-hiss of the licking flames. "What would you do, Mithrandir, if you knew that Isildur's heir lay sleeping in the next room? Think on your words carefully – for I will not hesitate to abandon another friend that wishes to harm the child. I would flee from you and find a new home for myself and the boy."

"I would offer to keep a closer eye on you. And I would warn you – Saruman has not fallen for Elrond's tale of the stillborn child. He hunts Middle-earth like some beastly predator, seeking to snatch your charge from your very arms. This is a grave task you have undertaken, Legolas. Keep him close to you or he will fall in to the darkness and it will be to your doom and the doom of all Middle-earth. But…" Gandalf smiled. "Hope still remains. You are strong, Legolas, stronger than most. If anyone can accomplish this task, it will be you."

The marble faded away to be replaced by pale skin, vulnerable in its softness; and the ice melted from the blue eyes. "They wanted to kill him," he informed the wizard painfully. "Elrond wanted to secure the future by destroying our hope. He said," and the elf's voice choked, "he said it would be painless. What kind of people – elves – would do that to a small child – a _babe_ barely a few hours out of the comfort and warmth of his mother's womb?"

"He was doing what he thought was best…"

"You have seen Estel, Mithrandir!" Legolas turned his face away and shielded his eyes with one hand. "Can you detect any hint of guile in him? Any hint of the wickedness they who are called wise accuse him of. He is a boy. Not a king. Not a pawn. A little boy."

"The potential for darkness lies in all of us."

Legolas had dropped his hand and his eyes – blank like a glassy sea – drifted to stare at the wall. "I heard his first word. I taught him to walk. I spoon-fed him and I changed his diapers. I sat up with him when he had nightmares. No one," and his voice was as brittle as the dried stalk of a rose, "no one will tell me that he is wicked. And no one will ever take him away from me."

At the end of the impassioned speech, Gandalf gazed mildly at the elf. "You have become quite attached to him, I see. Have you formed a bond with him?"

Laughter seemed to not fit the elf's hard face but the sound came from Legolas's mouth anyway. "I have raised him as my own. Of course I have become attached to him. But have I formed a bond with him? No. The last mortal I attempted that with was Arathorn." He laughed again. "And the outcome of that venture is well remembered by all."

"That was not your fault."

"Perhaps not but still I am reluctant to form a bond with him. I do not want to lose him. He is like my…" his voice faltered and Legolas turned his face to the flames, the muscles in his jaw tensing.

"Why do you not say it?" Gandalf leaned against the arm of the chair, his pipe dangling from his fingers. "The thoughts are clearly written on your face? Can you not speak the words?"

"He is like my son. As Arathorn was to me; so is Estel – only tenfold of that." Legolas sighed heavily. "And I am afraid of what I will do to keep him safe." His blue eyes were like bruises when they looked up at Gandalf. "I killed two men when he was just a tiny one – he was so young that he could not even walk yet. On the street they came upon us. I knew they were bounty hunters and I killed both of them and dumped their bodies in the river. I could not stand the thought of Estel being harmed."

"As would any father."

Legolas continued, not even acknowledging the tall wizard's words. "I feel as if Aragorn and I are simply conduits for the purposes of the Valar. Has our fate been predestined for thousands of years? Are we just playthings, Mithrandir? Can we do nothing to change the course Ilúvatar have set for us?"

"When we will it, we can be the masters of our fate. No future may hold us steadfast. A stout heart and a noble spirit can change the course of this world just as the Valar can. Never doubt that, Legolas."

Legolas shifted in his chair and breathed deeply through his nose for a long time before he spoke again. "Let us talk of other things. My own demons will be faced at the proper time."

"How did you name him Estel? Gilraen did not name him – poor woman was heartbroken over the demise of her husband and son."

"Arathorn chose to call his son Aragorn before he – he was lost. I will honor his wishes. Estel's name will be Aragorn when he learns of his past and his future – when he takes his place in the destiny of Middle-earth. As of now, I name him for the hope I feel in my heart whenever I look upon his face. It is a good name and I have no doubt that he will be worthy of it."

"I have no doubt that you will prove to be correct."

Legolas seemed to shudder before turning to Gandalf, his eyes awash with his thanks. "Long has it been since anyone put their trust in me – or in him. A very long time, indeed."

Gandalf smiled warmly and placed a weathered hand on Legolas's muscled shoulder. "None could be so worthy of my trust as you, young Thranduillion. You do your father and your country proud."

"I can only hope," Legolas's grin was wan but his eyes seemed a bit less shadowed. "Now, Mithrandir, you may have my bed for tonight. This chair is quite comfortable for me and this night, I think sleep will be long in coming to me."

"I will see you in the morning, Legolas." Gandalf stood and made his way to Legolas's room. "Rest well, I foresee much action in your future."

* * *

Pale blue sky stretched from the tree line to the mountain top and the sun was just peeking over the eastern horizon as a huge, whit orb. A slight breeze swept puffy clouds across the sky and a thin layer of dew covered the grass.

Gandalf stepped from Legolas's house, bearing his pointed hat and gnarled staff. "Be well, young one," he said in the deep voice of his, his eyes probing deep into Legolas's. "And keep your own young one safe."

"I will."

Indecision seemed to war across Gandalf's face for a moment and then he leaned close. His beard brushed Legolas's arm and his voice was scarcely more than a breath on the wind as if he feared that even the trees listened to his words. "I hesitated to speak of it last night but rumor has come to my ears of the shadow darkening in the east…they say that the One Ring has been uncovered."

Legolas's mouth tightened into a solemn line. "If it has already fallen into enemy hands – then I fear all is lost already."

"No. I do not believe the dark ones possess it. We would have learned of it by now." Gandalf swept his grey cloak around him and his eyes turned in the direction of the Misty Mountains. "I go now to find the veracity of these rumors. Beware of the Nine. If the ring has been found, they will not be long in coming. Already, there are those who say that their black horses have pounded from Mordor. Your only hope is keeping Estel's presence a secret."

The elf straightened and nodded. "I will pay for his safety with my blood."

"Let us hope it will not come to that." The wizard offered a warm smile. "May the Valar keep you well, Thranduillion."

"And may the Valar guard you, Mithrandir. Be safe." Legolas bowed slightly and pressed his hand to his heart. "I am sure Estel will be disappointed that you did not wait for his awakening so that he could bid you his farewells also. He was quite impressed with your magic."

Gandalf snorted. "Well, tell young Estel that I will probably be back for a visit. Though the ways of a wizard go to and fro with no predictable pattern, I will try to peek in whenever my circumstances allow. Wish him well, Legolas."

"Yes, Mithrandir." The elf stepped back and nodded. "Farewell."

With a wave at the young king, Gandalf took up his staff and began to walk across the plains towards the mountains.

Legolas watched him for quite a while before returning to his little house and beginning his day.

And though it was not visible to mortal or immortal eyes, the shadows of evil were beginning to grow darker and the breeze carried a foul tint that spoke of death and pain. Inevitability was drawing near.

* * *

Legolas had known when he saw the splintered door that Estel was gone. A candle rolled across the floor, a pale white sausage in the light of the dimming sun. He had cut his hand on broken glass when he had knelt to take Cobi in his arms, knowing that Estel would not have been quietly taken from his beloved bear.

But he had called for the child anyway, slick blood between his fingers and the bear against his chest. The world had been flat when he finally stood – he had felt detached from the floor and, yet, so bound by invisible constraints. He had laid Cobi on Estel's mussed bed and had awoken from the shocked lethargy.

_Only a few months_, his mind cried out,_ only a year since Mithrandir warned you to be vigilant – and you have already lost the child._

Once, he had seen a fire in one of the shacks on the outskirts of Archet. A child had been screaming inside – flames burdening the tiny roof and the door spouting fire. Legolas had run, intending to help or to comfort, but the mother had raced inside, gingham arms outstretched. The men had shaken their heads even as they had gathered buckets of water to pour on the flames. It was a lost cause – no one would come out alive – too much fire and smoke. The child had screamed again, a small noise almost consumed by the rumble of fire and the shatter as a section of roof had crumpled. And, then, when all hope had been burned, the mother had arisen from the flames of the doorway, child in her arms. There were flames in her hair, clinging to the back of her dress and seeping through her face – but the child had been covered in only soot and tiny hints of shiny red skin.

Legolas had grabbed the child from her as she burned and then had smothered her flames in the grass while buckets of tepid water had been poured over both of them. The child had wailed painfully as his burns had rubbed against the chest of the man holding him. Legolas had remembered the mother's charred skin for nights after – her black and crumbling face twisting constantly to find her son while her body had trembled in shock. Blood vessels had burst with the intense heat, seeping blood across the grass. She had died at the height of the moon and he had wondered how she had lived to carry her son from the burning inferno.

They had told him later, when the men in attendance were inebriated out of their minds, that accounts of such unreasonable actions were not uncommon. If humans are confronted with a sudden, great danger, a surge of energy allows the body to function – even when function is otherwise impossible.

Legolas remembered the charred face as he had gathered his weapons from the house and had fled into the night, chasing the men who held his destiny. The footprints had been simple to find in the white moonlight and fading pink sky. When he had looked to the stars as he ran through the deep trees, he had seen his own face – nose and mouth smoldering, skin crumbling like fried paper, and charred eyes roving ceaselessly as he searched for Estel, desperate for one last look at the boy he had burned for.

_Burning_, he thought as he traced the footprints into a deep grotto, across a slice of blue stream, and through a messy of clinging vines, _would not be so bad if Estel was safe. I do not think it would hurt then_.

The stars flickered red, the promise of fire.

He felt cold – the frigidness of a mind, frozen beyond feeling. The dark trees slid seamlessly into the forests of Greenwood – and he was running from the orcs, his father's dead body carried behind. The world had been flat then – colorless and bleached with sorrow. If Estel died…

But he would not allow himself to contemplate as he ran after Estel. The Eldar were fleet of foot and keen of eye – he would find Estel and he _would _save him. The Ilúvatar had destined Estel to grow into a fine man – he would be the prophesied savior of Middle-earth. Legolas had been given the dreams since Greenwood had been swept into darkness before his eyes.

He had dreamed!

He had walked the paths of the future - clear roads stretching against starry skies and rolling thunderheads. He had bent himself to the will of the Valar – to Ilúvatar. They would not forsake him now – not when the brink of the future was near at hand.

The insistence fell silent against the red stars. _Dreams are fleeting_.

He wanted to wail, lament in the manner of Eldar. His destiny had been the shining string through the dark caves, guiding him to the epoch of his life. If it was gone now… if the shining string had broken along the way…

Dirt shifted beneath his feet, the glaring signs of four men on horseback slowly appearing in the dark soil. He bent, back tight – the deeper print here, the broken leaf there, the freshness of sap on a broken limb. They were not far.

Legolas imagined the dark, slow moving blood of humans. If Estel was dead, then he would kill until the ground glittered red in the white moonlight. It would not bring back destiny, his epoch – it would avenge the grieving heart of a father. And, his face darkened as he leapt across a gully, that was more than a destiny. His love for Estel would drive him faster and harder than the knowledge of his destiny ever would. He would save Estel or avenge Estel as a father – not as the servant of the Valar and this destiny.

White flashed against the green of pine needles and Legolas slowed – he could smell men and… Estel. He felt impassioned – hot blood pulsing in his ears and the feeling of burns blazoned across his face.

Knives flashed before his eyes and he wondered how they appeared in his hands. He stepped and sprang into the thick tree above, yellow moon bouncing in the corner of his vision. Estel was there – just out of the range of vision, hidden behind a tree, ducked beneath the tall grass. He was there – the air filled his lungs – he lived.

He leapt again. His feet tightened on a slender branch, eyes peering ahead even as the branch dipped and bent beneath his weight. His Estel was there.

There was a clearing – he stepped to another tree, crouching behind a spray of thin, green leaves – with tall grasses. Moonlight turned to the ground silver, darkened the four men standing near the middle and the four horses tethered beside.

Estel was a curled splash of black against the swaying grasses, gray eyes like rain drops against a stormy sky. Trails of white skin wound down his face, dipping against the corners of his mouth. He was curled, knees against his chest with bound hands tucked against them as if he prayed.

Legolas wavered at the edge, feeling much like a phantasmal mist. They could not see him – he lingered on the edge of their conscious. He imagined he was Death, sickle in hand and black cape draped across his back. He would sweep from his perch and save the child. He was now just a slip of fog in the trees – and then he would be a white harbinger of death.

His fingers whitened – gray in the moonlight – and poised for flight. He surged from the branch, hair fluttering and knives glittering.

The nearest man turned when he touched the ground. The whites of his eyes were huge in the moonlight – and then red blood sprayed across his jaw as his throat seemed to simply burst under the pressure of the smooth blade.

Blood dashed across the face of the second man, blinding him momentarily as he fumbled for his sword. Legolas's foot caught him across the face and his cheekbone and nose crumpled inward. When he fell, white fluid seeped from his ears.

The third man drew his sword, eyes wide and unblinking in the darkness. His companion darted across the clearing, gripping Estel's hair and drawing the child close. His small knife glimmered dully as it was pressed to the child's chest.

Panic pulsed in a moment, then vanished under cool determination. Legolas drove forward, sweeping the third man's feet from beneath him with the swing of his left leg and then catching his shoulder with the right like a moment later as the man began to fall. The shoulder gave with a loud pop and both knives flashed as the ribs were laid bare to the cool night air.

The fourth man was drawing away, head turning nervously. He was speaking, spasmodically tightening his grip of Estel's hair; but Legolas did not hear.

Estel was crying, mouth moving with great sobs and bound hands pin-wheeling against the night sky. He reached for Legolas, sobbing his name. There was blood at the corner of his mouth and a livid bruise beneath his eye.

Legolas braced, smiling kindly at the child. _It would be well_, he tried to say in the night air. _It will all be well – I swear to you – I will never be gone from your side. I will never be too far that I cannot come to save you_.

His fingers shifted across the handle of the elven knife and the man's eyes widened as he stared spastically at the elf's hands. Then the man threw himself backward, sword cutting downward toward Estel's beating heart.

One knife left Legolas's hand, catching the meaty bicep of the man. He wailed out – so loud against elven ears – and his aim was thrown. The blade sank deep into Estel's upper shoulder even as Legolas' second blade was driven directly through the man's eye. Blood sprayed, catching Estel's hair and the side of his face.

The man wavered, ingrained muscle reflexes keeping him standing even when the brain ceased to function. Then he fell backward, hands loosening on the child. Estel fell with him and crashed to his chest before rolling to the ground.

Legolas slipped to his side, hands wrapping about the boy's heaving shoulders, catching him before he could tumble to the ground with the dead man. Horror pulsed in the back of his mind at the sight of the knife in his child's shoulder – wickedness stuck deep into innocence. "I am here," he said, voice sounding so choked. "I am here now." He brushed at the blood, uncaring of that the redness seeped into his sleeves as he cleaned the five-year-old's face. "You are safe now."

"Le-las," the child cried, bound hands pressing against Legolas's cheeks. "They – they…" His voice trailed off in a sob and his eyes dropped to stare in ghastly horror at the knife in his shoulder.

"Estel – Estel," Legolas grabbed his knife from the dead body and cut the bonds from Estel. "I must take the knife out." He gently took the trembling face in his hands. "I must remove the knife, my child. You must be brave."

Estel nodded, sobs pulsing in his throat.

Legolas took the child against him, reveling in the feel of the tiny body that was once more safe in his arms. His hand fumbled at his back, digging into the depth of his quiver. "Estel," he murmured. "You must hold this."

The huge gray eyes glittered. "Cobi!" He snatched bear with his unwounded arm, pressing it to the side of his face.

With a breath, Legolas wrapped his arm about Estel's chest, pressing the child securely against him. "The pain will only be for a moment, Estel," he whispered, kissing the damp forehead. "Only for a moment."

He braced himself, left hand gripping the knife protruding from his child's body. He breathed – and pulled – and cried inside when Estel wailed loudly into the stuffed bear. The knife was flung from his hand into the bloody grass and landed with a muffled thud. Legolas trembled only a little as he removed his own shirt and wrapped it about the wound, binding it close to the small body.

Silvery blood soaked the cloth and Legolas was afraid – terrified that the child was dying in his arms in a cold field.

The tiny face was so pale and bruised, eyes shining wetly with tears. Small arms and legs trembled with shock and he whimpered quietly. "Le-las," he murmured, snuggling against the warm chest. "Cold."

Legolas sniffed and wrapped the child in his cloak, brushing at the bloody hair. "Hush, child," he said as he stood, voice dropping into the soothing cadence he told bedtime stories in. He held the child against his chest, supporting his back and legs wit his arms. "Soon, we will be home and I will wrap you in blankets and sleep with you before the fire. Do not be afraid."

The child moaned in pain as Legolas began to run through the trees. His white arms wrapped about the bear's neck, clinging tightly, even as his eyes slipped closed and his breath lightened.

Legolas imagined the child was shrinking in his arms, growing more insubstantial and cold even as he held the boy close to his chest. "Estel," he said as he breached the gully and raced onward, making a desperate attempt to smoothen his gait for the wounded child. "You must keep your eyes open."

Slivers of gray appeared beneath charcoal eyelashes and the tiny body began to shake. "Almost home?" he sighed, glazed eyes drifting over Legolas's head. One tiny hand loosened from the bear and attached itself to Legolas's undershirt.

"Almost home," Legolas agreed readily. _You promised!_ he screamed to the Valar, desperate for the life of the child. _I must fulfill my destiny…_ _he is my son now and I will not surrender him on your whims_.

Light pink lips loosened and Estel's face fell to the side, rubbing against Legolas's chest. He breathed deeply and sighed. "Love Le-las," he said softly. "Bad men – knew you would come. Not afraid."

"You are brave."

"Like you."

"Like me." Legolas swallowed and calculated how much longer until they would arrive at the small house where he could treat Estel – where he could and would save Estel's life.

The small body tensed like a bowstring and the face lifted. Gray eyes peered into Legolas and Estel puckered his lips. "I hungry," he murmured, "they no feed me and I hungry."

Legolas looked down and smiled confidently. "Then, after you are warm and clean, I will feed you."

"Promise?" The fist tightened about Legolas' shirt.

"I promise." Legolas's eyes went to the stars, peering at the red flashes of light – tiny fires in the sky, promising the reality of tomorrow. Destiny would come.

* * *

**Preview of the next chapter:**

"Come on, Estel," Legolas cajoled, kneeling in front of the six year old. "I am sure you will enjoy yourself." His hands reached up and tugged on the green linen shirt the boy was wearing. "Can you just smile once before I leave?"

* * *

**Author's Note:** real life is a constant struggle right now – I recently got married and my husband is in the army and preparing to leave for Iraq. Writing is my outlet, but I can't always find time to post. I'm considering moving my stories to my livejournal and only posting here when I'm done. What does everyone think about that?

Thanks to all my reviewers for their continued support, especially _**LegolassQ**_(once again, don't worry, this story will be happier than my other), **_Viggomaniac_ **(thanks for catching that little error…embarrassed) and **_Mariette_ **(I feel so spoiled with your comments!)


	7. Gold Poison

**Disclaimer: **I own none of the recognizable characters in this story—they all belong to JRR Tolkien and New Line.

**Wherever the Surge May Sweep**

**By Jame K. (aka, partheon)**

**

* * *

**

_**Chapter Six: Gold Poison**_

_Poison is drunk out of gold.  
- Seneca_

Three long years had passed since Gandalf had left Legolas's house in search of the One Ring and Estel's subsequent kidnapping. For three long years, the Maia had passed following wild-goose-chases and phantom footsteps back and forth across Middle-earth geography. Three years had led him to the small home of a Bilbo Baggins of the Shire.

Well, one good thing about passing time in the company of hobbits – Gandalf reflected solemnly as he sat on the tiny bench in the tiny house – they made the most excellent pipeweed in all of Middle-earth.

The wizard took a long appreciative drag on the pipe and smiled at the curly-haired hobbit next to him as he listened to the small creature expound on the merits of living underneath the ground as opposed to above it.

When the tale was finished, the glittery-eyed hobbit turned expectantly to the wizard. "Now," he cried with a bright smile, "do tell why you have chosen to grace this home of mine?"

Wrinkles across Gandalf's face widened as a smile split apart his lips. "Lobelia tells me that you are the most knowledgeable hobbit in these parts," he confided in a deep voice, "she also says if anyone clearly remembers the story of Smeagol and Deagol it would be you."

The hobbit's face darkened and one hand came to rub at a furrowed brow. "Oh, yes. Sad tale. Tragic tale. Happened only a few years before my birth. My gaffer knew both them and he often related the story to me as a warning. 'Never be greedy, Bilbo, my boy,' he would say." Bilbo smiled. "What do you want to know?"

"What was the fight over?"

Bilbo stirred his cup of tea – metal spoon clanking against fine porcelain. "Well," he said, "no folks around these parts are quite sure. Some say it was over mushrooms – which I highly doubt. But some whisper," and he whispered as well, "that there was a shiny trinket involved." Then Bilbo's voice returned to normal. "But I say that is nonsense as well. Whoever heard of a hobbit being interested in something he could not eat? Leave that to the big folk, I always say."

Gandalf's mouth was deeply lined and his eyes had sharpened slightly. "Tell me, what happened to this Smeagol?"

"No one quite knows." The hobbit shrugged. "He was cast from the Shire for killing his cousin. My old gaffer says that none of the folks knew what to make of it. No hobbit had ever killed another hobbit before."

"So he was just let go?"

Another shrug. "You could say that. He could not return to his family ever which is terrible in itself for us hobbits. Family is everything." Bilbo glanced at Gandalf from the corner of his eye. "Like I said, they really did not know what to do with him. It was the first murder in the history of Hobbiton that I know of."

"And you have no idea where Smeagol could have gone off to after he was banished?"

"Well, there are rumors that he is living up in the Misty Mountains." Bilbo waved his hand in the general direction. "They say he has transformed into something hideous, eating raw meat and living in caves. Younglings are told if they are bad, he will come at night and eat them up. He's become quite the legend. I think he is probably dead. He would be a mighty old hobbit considering he was full age when my gaffer was just a youngling."

Gandalf slowly nodded. "Very old." He stood – though his head was bent to avoid crashing into the low ceiling. "It was good to meet you, Master Baggins, and I trust our paths will cross again."

Bilbo jumped to his feet, holding out his smaller hand to take the wizard's much larger one. "Oh, the pleasure was all mine, Master Gandalf, and do please come again and you can tell me some of your fabulous stories."

The wizard took the small hand and shook it lightly. "You would do a great service to me, Master Baggins, if ever you heard of or laid eyes on this Smeagol. I would be greatly appreciative if you let me know."

"Of course, Master Gandalf." The hobbit's dimples deepened in his cheeks as he offered a wide smile.

Gandalf nodded and smiled again and then he was out the door into the fresh greenness of the shire. He took a deep breath and began walking down the small dirt road. Perhaps… just perhaps… the last three years had not been in vain, after all.

The smell of fetid fish heads and waste seemed to permeate the cavern and the sound of lapping water could be faintly heard over the half-insane mumblings coming from the creature crouched in once corner. The only light was a sallow candle sitting on a lopsided gray stone. A black wick held a dim flame that flickered in a gentle draft from the outside.

There was no hair on the gray, stretched skin of the emaciated creature – save fore a few long, colorless strands hanging from the knotted head. To add to that, the creature was naked save for a stained loincloth stretched over fleshless hips. Bulbous eyes gleamed in the darkness and yellow teeth clacked periodically. Knobby, long-fingered hands were in constant motion as they fondled, petted, and caressed the shiny gold object they held.

"My…precious," the creature murmured, eyes growing impossibly wider as they studied the small gold ring. "Smeagol's…all Smeagol's. Nobody but Smeagol!" The last word was drawn out in a shrill howl that was quickly interrupted by the creature's hacks of "Gollum, Gollum."

All sound ceased – except the gentle lapping of the small pond inside the cave – when there was the patter of rocks falling at the cave's entrance.

Gasping in distress, Gollum concealed the ring in the strip of his loincloth and cautiously crept towards the noise on all four legs. His mouth was parted and his eyes darted through the shadows.

A large rock had fallen several steps from the entrance many years before and Gollum ducked behind it now, his hands anxiously petting the ring as his huge eyes examined the lighted world beyond his dank home.

For a moment, there was nothing and then a gray robed figure strode past, his staff tapping on the scattered rocks. Just outside the entrance to Gollum's cave, the figure – which Gollum now decided was a man though years upon years had gone by since he had seen one – paused and removed the odd pointy thing from his head. Thick gray hair whipped around the face as the man observed the cave entrance and the surrounding countryside.

Gollum whimpered and shrank deeper into the shadows. Nervous hands fondled the ring and he looked lovingly down at the shiny metal.

His Precious would keep him safe. Precious would not want to go with mean man. Precious would want to stay with Gollum. Gollum was good to Precious and Precious was good to Gollum.

But still the man lingered outside Gollum's cave. The creature could hear his heartbeat pounding against his frail ribs and the hand that was not holding Precious came up to touch the throbbing organ, begging it to please be quiet for Precious.

Finally, the man sighed, scratched his head, and began to trek across the uneven rocks once more on his way down the mountain – much to Gollum's abject relief. Soon the sound of his clattering footsteps faded from Gollum's ears and the tip of the pointy thing disappeared from view.

Gollum sagged against the smooth slimy surface of the rock; his arms flopped out on either side and his mouth was wide and gasping. Too close, Precious. Too close for poor Gollum. Precious was cruel to have worried poor Gollum so. Precious should be nice to Gollum because Gollum was so nice to Precious.

Gathering the ring up close to his wrinkled face, Gollum used one finger to circle the smooth top of the piece of jewelry. That was all right. Gollum would forgive Precious. Precious had not meant to hurt poor Gollum. Precious loved Gollum and Gollum loved Precious.

Yes, Gollum cackled as he bounded up to his original perch above the underground pond. Precious would protect Gollum from anything.

* * *

Autumn leaves were swirling in a gust of air as Legolas pulled Estel up to the steps of the little building. The sky was a dusky blue with a few clouds drifting on the breezes. The sun was low in the eastern sky as the last colors of the sunrise faded away in preparation of the coming day.

Legolas and Estel stood before a small wooden building that stood in a dirt lot right next to the high wall that protected the main part of the town. Wooden steps led up to a dirty door with a tarnished brass handle. Sparkling windows decorated with gaily colored curtains of blue and crimson were on either side of the door and the elf could see the rows and rows of desks inside of the room.

"Come on, Estel," Legolas cajoled, kneeling in front of the six year old. "I am sure you will enjoy yourself." His hands reached up and tugged on the green linen shirt the boy was wearing. "Can you just smile once before I leave?"

Estel bit his lower lip and looked through his dark lashes at Legolas. "You can teach me."

A sigh escaped the elf and he dropped his head forwards. "We have gone over this. I know I could teach you…but I want you to learn to interact with other children your age. You do not have many friends your own age." Legolas reached up and smoothed back the boy's hair, marveling that it could get so tangled after the elf had just brushed it only an hour ago.

"Please!" Estel threw himself at the elf and wrapped his short arms around Legolas's neck, burying his face in the muscled shoulder. "Let me go home with you. I will weed the garden and sweep the floor and pick up my blocks and make my bed and milk the cow…"

Legolas smiled and his arms came up to gently wrap around the young boy's small body in a loose hug. "I know you would. You are a wonderful child. But now you must go to school. I promise you will have fun and I will be here waiting for you when the school bell rings." He gently disentangled himself from the child and moved to hold Estel at arms distance. "Take courage, Estel."

The boy nodded and sniffed loudly, eyes fixed on Legolas.

"Now," Legolas stood and laid a warm, comforting hand on the boy's shoulder. "We still have some time before the school actually starts. Let us go make the acquaintance of your teacher." He reached down and ruffled the boy's hair in an affectionate gesture.

Estel groaned as he reached up to pat the hair back into position. "Legolas!"

The door creaked loudly as Legolas pushed it open and caused the woman inside to start briefly.

"Oh," she stood and wiped her hands free of chalk dust. "I need to oil those hinges. It escaped my mind. Silly me." She hurried over to the large desk that was pushed into one corner of the room and retrieved a vial of oil and a worn rag. Ignoring Legolas and Estel, she trotted passed them, over to the errant door and proceeded to meticulously oil each one of the three hinges.

Estel had pressed himself to Legolas's side, his tan face buried in Legolas's hip. One curious gray eye peeked out at the bustling woman.

Dropping a reassuring hand on Estel's head, Legolas affixed a pleasant smile to his face and cleared his throat softly to get her attention. "Are you the teacher?" he asked once she had turned to face him.

Her hands fluttered up to her throat and then further up to her hair, patting down any errant strands that might have been there. A rosy flush crept up from the high, gray collar of her dress and her mouth opened in a wide smile. "Why, yes. You must be Legolas Greenleaf!" she exclaimed in a voice that made Legolas wince. "Of course, you are the only elf in Archet so who else would you be? I had no idea your son was old enough for school! I am Shana."

Legolas opened his mouth to reinstate that Estel was _not _his son but then closed it just as rapidly. He had the feeling that would lead to much more conversation than he wished for at the moment. "It is good to meet you. And, he is a little old actually for just beginning school." He looked down at the wavy, dark locks that were still pressed against the side of his tunic. "I taught him to read and most of his numbers so he should not be behind his age mates."

She nodded eagerly and stepped closer to the elf. "I assure you, there is no need to worry. I have taught for many years now and am fully qualified. In fact," she sidled closer and laid one delicate hand on the elf's forearm, "I am very good at calming worried parents."

The archer blinked and took two steps back, dragging Estel with him. "Well, yes," he smiled again, "I am afraid I must leave for work now." He turned his back on her and knelt before Estel. "Be good," he whispered.

"But, Legolas," Estel's eyes were open wide with innocence as he spoke quietly for only the elf's ears, "work does not start for another hour."

Legolas narrowed his eyes in mock anger at the young boy and pressed one long finger to the small lips, causing Estel to giggle fitfully. "Have fun at school." Legolas stood quickly and headed out the door just as the first of the other children began to come in from the outside.

"See you this afternoon," Shana called waving vigorously.

Legolas had just made it down to the edge of the street when Estel's cry made him stop and turn.

The young boy launched himself into his mentor's arms, placing his forehead against Legolas's and his eyes squeezing shut. "You will come for me when the school bell rings?"

Legolas ran one hand down the dark strands. "Yes, Estel. I will come for you. I promise. Now go, enjoy your day." He set the child down and watched as Estel scampered back into the building.

With a sigh, he began walking towards the stables. It felt so odd not to have a small child bouncing by his side, asking a million questions. Legolas sighed again. He guessed that he would have to get used to it.

As the elf approached The inn, the door flew open and Bartmelou bustled out into the bright morning sun. He shaded his eyes and seemed to fix his gaze on Legolas's approaching form. "Sent him off to school, then?" he called and then added in the same breath, "you're early."

Legolas nodded as he stopped next to the man, his arms folded across his chest. "I did. The teacher," he paused to make an unpleasant face at the memory, "she wanted to stay and chat. I thought it prudent to escape as soon as was possible."

Bartmelou guffawed loudly and slapped his hands on his meaty thighs. "I'm surprised the missus didn't warn you. Shana's known for sighting out all of the prospects. She's a bit flighty – but she's a good teacher so we keep her around. Come, come."

Legolas obediently followed the man around to the front door of the pub and stopped beside the water bucket as the man washed his face. "I suppose she seemed nice. I just hope Estel will find her a suitable teacher."

"Was he a'feared at all?"

"A little. But he soon warmed up. I think he will have a good time." Legolas wiped his hands on his leggings and stepped inside the pub. "Have the horses arrived from the Riddermark?"

"Not yet. Don't have much for you to do today actually." Bartmelou stopped in the middle of the room and surveyed the few patrons sitting at the tables with his pudgy hands planted on his wide hips. "Wanna clean the floor?"

Legolas sighed and glanced at the clock. There was only seven more hours until he would pick Estel up from the school house.

* * *

Outside the schoolhouse, a gnarled, old tree extended its branches across the play area. Bumpy roots protruded from the grass and made an excellent miniature battle ground for the young children's toy soldiers. The tree's few leaves were turning orange and gold as the autumn approached. Now and then, the gusty breeze would steal another leaf from the branch and float it across the field to the street.

It being the only tree in close proximity to the schoolhouse, Legolas had chosen to make his perch on the largest of the gnarly branches while he waited for Estel to make his appearance from the schoolhouse door. He half reclined with one arm propped against the trunk and one leg dangling off the branch in midair. His blond hair hung out behind him, threatening to catch itself in the knotty bark, and his blue eyes were like a warm pond – relaxed and full of life.

The tree had never had an elf sit in its branches before and was quite enamored by the golden being. Knots had worked themselves out of the branches and the tree stood as tall as it could. Meanwhile, its leaves leaned closer to the woodland creature, eager to bask in the gentle aura the elf projected.

Unfailingly polite, Legolas had crafted a simple tune to hum to the tree and one hand played with the batting braches the tree sent his way. He had tried speaking to it earlier only to discover that the tree had been apart from wood elves so long that it not longer could communicate with them in words.

Much to the tree's chagrin, however, as soon as the school bell rang, Legolas sat up straight. When the branch batted at his face again, the elf ignored the leaves that tickled his face as he studied the children pouring from the rickety door. With his sharp ears, he could detect Shana's voice reminding the children of their homework as they flooded form the building.

Murmuring a farewell to his new tree friend, Legolas alighted to the ground and studiously ignored the wondering glances the children sent his way. Luminous eyes ran over the multitude of little heads, looking for the one that belonged to him. When he caught sight of familiar dark, wavy hair and a tanned face, a relieved grin split his face and he leaned back slightly.

"Legolas!" Breaking from the press of his fellows, Estel bolted towards the elf and jumped into the air.

The elf laughed as he caught the boy easily out of the air and pressed his forehead to the smaller one in a greeting. "And how was school?" he asked softly, merriment twinkling across his handsome face. "Was it as absolutely horrendous as you thought it would be?"

"Nuh-uh. I made some friends. They're swell!"

Legolas furrowed his brow and cocked his head back, a question flitting across his eyes. "Swell?"

The human child giggled and squirmed out of Legolas's arms. He stood on the ground and tilted his head so he could look Legolas directly in the eye. "Yes, swell! That is what everyone says here when something is good. Swell." Then the child's chin wrinkled and his eyebrows rose into his forehead. "Legolas… why is the tree smacking you with branches?"

A long-suffering sigh passed the elf's lips as he moved out of the way of said waving branches. "I made a friend while I waited for the bell to ring," he explained, his bland voice contrasting the laughter filling his eyes. "I think it is jealous of the attention I have given you."

Estel's tiny giggles turned into a full-fledged laugh when the tree's branches reached for Legolas's head once more, making the elf dodge quickly to avoid the fluttering leaves.

Legolas scowled but then laughed as well.

"And here I always thought you two were dull." Shana smiled widely at Legolas, her hands neatly folded in front of her gray dress.

"We are hardly dull," Estel muttered. When Legolas shot him a warning look, he bowed his head. "I apologize."

Shana gave a light laugh. "I was wondering what elves do in their free time," she said, deepening her voice and focusing her attention solely on Legolas.

Legolas cocked his head to one side. "We talk to trees."

For a moment, Shana looked flustered and patted her hair nervously into place. But then she put on what was intended to be a coy smile. "But surely you do not spent all your time…er…talking to trees."

"You would be surprised," Estel commented dryly.

Shana paid no attention to the young human and fluttered closer to Legolas and laid a hand on one tense forearm. "Surely you would like to take walks or eat dinner with a friend," she leaned a little bit closer, "or take a quick tumble. I hear elves have mystical powers, I wonder what they would be like in bed."

To Estel's utter amazement, Legolas flushed from the tips of his ears to the top of his collar. "I assure you," he said when he had regained his serenity somewhat. "My time is quite full. Come, Estel, we are leaving."

This was truly a day for strange happenings! Estel thought as he trotted after Legolas. Never had he seen his mentor be anything other that stiflingly polite to any female that came across his path and the elf had taught Estel to do the same. To leave one standing in an open field without so much as a farewell was truly a wonder in Estel's eyes. He wondered if it was something in the air.

"Legolas," he asked when they were some distance from the building and Legolas's strides had slowed slightly to a more sedate pace, "what did she mean when she asked if you like to fall?"

The elf blinked. "What?"

Estel turned his head to watch a team of horses run by as they pulled a cart. "She asked if you would like to tumble. I do not know why anyone would enjoy falling." He looked back up at Legolas and was surprised to see that the elf's lips were firmly compressed together and his cheeks were turning a light shade of red. Was the elf angry? "Legolas?"

When Legolas made a strangled gasping noise, Estel wondered if he should be concerned for the elf's overall well-being. Had some strange affliction come upon the elf unexpectedly?

"Some things, Estel," the elf finally said when his breath had been regained, "you will be better off not knowing until you are older." His head bent downwards and he gave Estel a warm smile that assuaged any fears that the boy may have had. "Now, tell me about your day."

"Yes, Legolas," the boy prepared to launch into a long narrative about his school day when another thought gave him pause. "Will you be waiting for me outside the school tomorrow, Legolas?"

"I think I shall meet you at the inn. How does that sound? That way you can walk a distance with your friends."

Estel thought a moment and then nodded. "All right. But I think you just do not want to see Miss Shana again."

Legolas reached over and ruffled the boy's hair. "Go on. Tell me about your day."

Petulantly, Estel fixed his hair and began to talk.

* * *

**Author's note; ** thanks all for your patience and kind words. If you didn't notice I changed my penname recently. I just felt like a change. Hehe. Let me know what you thought of this chapter! I love you all! 


	8. Bubble on the Fountain

**Disclaimer: **I own none of the recognizable characters in this story—they all belong to JRR Tolkien and New Line.

**Wherever the Surge May Sweep**

**By Jame K. **

_**Chapter Seven: The Bubble on a Fountain**_

_Like the dew on the mountain,  
Like the foam on the river,  
Like the bubble on the fountain,  
Thou are gone, and for ever!  
– Sir Walter Scott_

Bartmelou's Inn and Pub was quiet that day. Men had not yet gotten off of their jobs and most of the women were inside starting the preparations for dinner that night. The school bell had not yet rung – so no children cavorted about the streets – but, despite that, little Estel sat one of the tall wooden barstools with a thick piece of raw meat draped over one eye.

"Are you sure this is supposed to help?" Estel's voice was sullen and one hand nervously fidgeted with the hem of his shirt. "Where is Idella?"

Bartmelou folded his chubby hands and stared at the eight-year-old boy with consternation. "Of course, it'll work. The same thing my pappy did to me when I was your age and getting into little scraps."

The boy removed the meat and looked into the mirror over the bar, examining the purple and black skin that shone around his eye. "It doesn't look any better. And it still hurts."

"Stop complaining or I will send word to Legolas up at the house." Bartmelou sat back with a sigh of satisfaction when Estel obligingly put the red meat back over his eye. "Now, care to tell me what this little tussle was all about, my lad? You can tell ol' Bart anything and he won't tell nobody." The stocky man leaned closer and smiled. "Was it over a girl?"

"No!" Estel scowled at the innkeeper's belly laugh that followed his statement, tilting his head back to keep the meat in place. "What? There is no need to fight over girls."

Bartmelou laughed again then shook his head.

Estel groaned and rolled his one visible eye to look at the tubby innkeeper sitting on a stool much too small for his large girth a few inches away. "What do you know about Legolas?"

"Huh?" Bartmelou grabbed a cloth from the counter and began rubbing at a small tarnish in the glossy wood.

"How did you meet him? Where did he come from?"

"Now…let's see that's a funny story. One night about eight years ago, that elf rode into town with a wee babe that hardly looked to be over a day's old in his arms and the saddest expression on his face. Came right here to this very inn and bought that little house that you two live in now and took that little job helping me with the horses out back. And that was it."

Estel nodded. He had been told this story many times before by different townspeople – everyone knew some fashion of this same story. "Yes, but where did he come from?"

"That's a funny story, too… he never really did say much about it… but I have my own suspicions. Folks around these parts will tell that he fell in love with this female and the other elves didn't approve. They say your mama died in birth and then Legolas, well, he just struck out on his own with you to get away from them elves." Bartmelou leaned back. "And that's what the folks say."

"So Legolas is my father? But wouldn't that make me an elf?"

"Well…" Bartmelou dragged the word out as he scratched his chin. "I dunno. That's why folks say your mama was a woman – not an elf lady. But maybe you would have some of them elf features…I dunno."

Estel slumped dejectedly in the chair and the meat almost slid off of his face before he managed to catch it. "Oh."

"Was that what you were fight'un over?" Bartmelou leaned on the bar and shook his head. "No matter how much you don't know about that elf of yours, boy, remember this – every time you've been sick or in trouble, he's been worried about you. I dunno what happened to make you two come out here all alone, but he loves you to bits. I have not a single doubt about that."

The boy was quiet for a moment, his hand tugging at the linen shirt. "I know. Thank you for the meat." He took the raw meat off of his face and looked once more in the mirror with a wince of pain. "I should be getting home now. The school bell will be ringing soon."

Bartmelou waved in acknowledgement as he bustled back to the kitchen to begin preparations for the evening rush. "See you later, boy."

* * *

Estel approached his home with dragging steps. His eye stung mercilessly as the cool breeze swept across the tender flesh and the livid bruises he knew were decorating his legs throbbed with every move he made.

There was no way – he knew as he studied the dusty ground passing beneath his feet – that he could hide his injuries from Legolas. He might as well just face the elf head on and do his best to explain the situation. The elf never condoned fighting but perhaps if Estel explained…

Sighing heavily, Estel raised his eyes to look at the wooden house. Dark smoke drifted against the pale blue sky and the front door hung open. Estel furrowed his brow. Had Legolas gone out?

A gust of cool wind kicked up a plume of dusk from the road and caused the hinges of the door to creak ever so slightly. Estel thought he could detect the slightly bitter scent of Legolas's tea drifting from the opened doorway.

"Legolas?" His feet echoed hollowly on the steps as he peered inside the dim interior of the house. "Legolas?"

Silence met his query and Estel furrowed his brow in confusion, momentarily forgetting his bruised body. His gray eyes darkened as he looked around the deserted area.

Golden leaves whirled down from the nearby trees and Estel began to trot to the back of the house. Perhaps Legolas was at the small stable with his horse… The elf had been known to do that after all. Or perhaps he was in the forest and had lost track of the time as he communed with the trees.

As Estel rounded the corner of the house, his ears picked up the sound of hushed conversation – one of the voices sounding like Legolas. Quickening his pace, he brushed back the dark hair that had fallen into his face and tried to peer into the dull forest light. "Legolas?"

The conversation ceased and trees rustled in the wind.

"Estel?" Legolas stepped from the trees. Concerned lines marred his delicate features and his blue eyes were deep with questions. His gaze darkened even more when he caught a glimpse of the livid bruise around Estel's eye. "What happened?" The elf hurried forwards and knelt in front of the small child, one cool, soft hand touching the tender skin gently.

"I…" Estel swallowed and looked over Legolas's shoulder into the shadows cast by the trees. "Who is that?"

Legolas turned and looked at the tall dark-haired elf standing a few steps behind him. His voice seemed to falter for a moment and the hand laying on Estel's shoulder tightened.

Dark lashes contrasted against flawless skin and framed bright green eyes that were now boring into Estel. A prominent nose and a high forehead gave a regal bearing to the face even as the round mouth formed into a decrepitating smile. "Quite the little ruffian you have there, _mellon nin_."

"I think you should go now, Elrohir." Legolas stood, his movements almost seeming slower than normal. One hand remained on Estel's shoulder. "I thank you for bringing me the news."

"Of course," Elrohir sketched a quick bow at the waist and threw another scathing look at Estel. "I shall be sure to inform my father that young Estel is turning out wonderfully."

"Elrohir…" Legolas stepped away from Estel and stood directly in front of the darker elf, forcing the green eyes to lock with his own blue ones. "Please do not do this. You are my friend but I thought you understood that this was the path I had chosen. I cannot depart from it now."

"I understand." Elrohir turned to stride back into the woods. "I just wonder when we will receive news of your doom."

Then he was gone and Legolas was left standing at the edge of the trees. Proud shoulders had hunched over slightly and Estel thought he could detect a minute trembling in the long fingers.

"Legolas," Estel murmured as he stepped closer, leaning into Legolas's side. "Who was that?"

A cloud drifted across the cover the bright yellow sun and the air around the pair grew dull.

Legolas sighed heavily and weariness filled the space around the elf. "He was an old friend, Estel. Very old. I would not worry about him, Estel," the elf continued, seeing the boy's thoughts written plainly across his face. "Elrohir left his horse in the woods. He will have no trouble returning to his home."

A wry smile twisted across the pale features and Legolas seemed to lose himself in his thoughts for several long breaths. "Now," the elf said, starting slightly as if awaking from a particularly unpleasant dream, "what happened to your eye? Have you been fighting?"

"I am sorry." Estel hung his head and fished in the dirt with his big toe. "I know what you have told me."

"It does not look too bad." The elf firmly grasped the child's chin and moved the face back and forth so he could see the black eye more clearly. Cheeks dimpled in a tender smile that did not reach the clouds of sadness lingering in the blue eyes. "How does the other boy look?"

"Uh…" Estel hesitated unsure of what to say – would he punished if he said the boy did look worse? "I split his lip – probably gave him a couple bruises too." Then he winced as the elf prodded a particularly painful place on his mid-section with cool fingers. "He was… um... bigger than me," he said, anxiously watching Legolas's face for any signs of anger.

"I can imagine," Legolas patted his shoulder encouragingly and then turned towards the house, his stride slowed to accommodate for Estel's tender, limping gait. He cast a sympathetic glance over his shoulder when Estel moaned softly as his bruises protested. "I have some salves that will work wonders on those bruises. And a cool cloth for that eye of yours."

A puzzled expression stole across the youthful cheeks and Estel forced himself to catch up to the elf's slightly longer stride. "Are you not angry, Legolas? It is against the rules to fight."

Legolas sighed and his dull eyes turned to the slowly descending sun. "I am too weary to be angry, Estel. My heart has been grieved by the news that elf brought and now all I wish is to be left in silence with my thoughts."

Stunned by the honesty, Estel nodded and fell into quiet for the remainder of the journey to the house. He sat at the wooden table and watched Legolas pour him a cup of tea. The cool cloth that Legolas had fetched for him felt heavenly on his eye – much better than the odd sensation of the cold, slimy meat.

But all of this was passed in silence and Estel was dreadfully aware of the cloud of misery that had come to hang over Legolas.

"Take off your shirt."

Estel started at the soft words but quickly obeyed, discarding the shirt to the floor. "They are not as bad as they look," he offered when Legolas winced in surprise. "And they do not hurt nearly as much as they did."

Legolas nodded and dipped his fingers in the small jar he carried. Tender hands spread the cool, white salve across the purple and blue skin. "I am surprised that your ribs are not broken," the elf said his hands moving over the outlined bones. "It seems as if he kicked you quite heartily." He fell quiet and when he spoke again his eyes were fixed on the boy's faced. "What was the fight over?"

A flush started at Estel's neck and stretched up over his ears. "They said my mother was a…" the boy turned a brighter color and murmured the word under his breath, unwilling to say it aloud.

There was a quick indrawn breath and Legolas's hands stilled on Estel's chest. His blond hair covered his expression.

"Legolas?" Estel asked and his voice was tinged with childish concern. "She wasn't one, was she?"

"No, Estel." Legolas turned his face upwards and the boy was surprised to see tears shimmering in the bright eyes. "She was a truly honorable and noble woman – beautiful in mind and in features."

"Did you love her?"

Legolas looked surprised by the question and he blinked several times in uncertainty. "I suppose… in a way." He breathed slowly through his mouth. "I knew her for a long time by mortal standards and she became very dear to me. A close friend and a companion."

Estel nodded. "I am sorry that you are sad."

There was a silence as Legolas picked up Estel's shirt and helped him put it on. "Someone," he said with some difficulty, "someone that was very dear to me died a few days ago and I feel that I had wronged her in some way." His eyes found Estel's and held them in a steady gaze. "I took something very dear from her a long time ago. There was no other option at the time – but I wonder…"

His gaze dropped away and his hands busied himself with the dinner preparations. A frenetic haste seemed to come over him and his hands trembled with seemingly suppressed emotion.

Then, Legolas abruptly stilled and turned back to Estel. "I wished I could have told her how sorry I was for all that occurred. There is much I regret," and he drew near the boy, "but the one thing that I do not regret is our life together. You have been a blessing unto me, Estel."

Estel nodded and smiled at the elf – glad for the expression of love but unsure of how to address the heavy sorrow glistening in Legolas's eyes. He wondered if he should broach the burden weighing on his own spirit. Had his mother – this person Legolas claimed was beautiful inside and out – loved Legolas as well? Had they together sired him? Was Legolas his father?

The rest of the night was passed in silence until near the midnight hour when Estel had awoken to muffled sobbing.

Silently, the boy had slipped from his bed – bringing with him his knit blanket – and found Legolas in the small sitting room, knees tucked up to his chest and head buried in folded arms. He had snuggled up against the elf, wrapping the blanket around both of them. His small hand had gently stroked the soft hair even as his eyes had grown heavy with sleep. He had just about drifted off completely when a warm, strong arm stole about his shoulders and pulled him close.

As sleep softened Estel's features, the boy smiled as realization crept across his weary mind. It did not matter if Legolas was not his blood sire. Legolas loved Estel and Estel loved Legolas. That would never change.

And when the pink morning dawned, they were in the same position.

* * *

"So," Saruman's voice was oily and his mouth tightened, "Gandalf the Grey once again seeks the power of the One Ring. Fool!" The last word was spat from his twisted mouth and spittle landed on the smoothness of his throne. "He cannot hide his movements from me with simple spells and conjurations. My power is so greater than his… so much beyond his." 

The bottom of his staff clicked against the marble floor. "He thinks he can triumph against the combined might of Saruman and Sauron – the united force of the two strongest beings of Middle-earth." His white cloaks whirled around him. "He deceives only himself."

His gaze swept across the dark room and landed critically on the cowering figure in one dim corner. "You will stand and face me." His deep voice echoed in the circular chamber.

Tremors shook the lean frame as the man (more of a boy, really) stretched to his full height. Dark, stringy hair fell over a painfully white face with bruised lips and empty, colorless eyes. "Yes, my lord."

"You will attend to me."

Fairly tripping over the ragged robe he wore, the boy stumbled after the Istari. His eyes darted about the darkness as he skirted around the lengthening shadows. "What will you have me do, my lord?"

The steps were too long and too wide for a single step but Saruman swept down them with graceful ease. "Stay behind me. We go to check on the progress of my armies. And keep your tongue behind your teeth. I have no desire to hear your inane babble at this time."

Two orc sentries stood at either side of the great entrance to the wizard's stronghold of Orthanc. When they caught side of the wizard, they quickly ceased talking as the wizard fairly flew past them and down the dark steps. The sky was heavy with clouds and a fierce, restless wind was blowing from the East. Trees shook under the onslaught as the wind howled between them with a terrific force.

"Did you know, Brome," Saruman said casually to the cowed boy as they moved towards their destination. "That in less than two days, I plan to move against the weakened country of Rohan?"

Slumped shoulders stiffened and a spark ignited and died in the colorless eyes. "No, my lord."

"I thought not to tell you until now," the wizard continued, one eye watching the boy's reaction. "Really I did not know why you needed to know – then today I had recollection. You had family in Rohan, a mother and a small sister if I am not mistaken. I imagine it has been years since you have seen them.

"Yes, my lord," Brome answered, his voice a toneless inflection. But pain and anger seeped into his eyes – a development that Saruman did not miss.

Their footsteps clacked against the wooden ramp and Saruman smiled – pleased at the sheer amount of orcs moving in the depths of the pit they had dug. He could smell the fire and see the glow as weapons of war were forged. He could taste the victory that this army would bring him.

Turning once again to Brome, Saruman fixed a slightly compassion expression on his face. "It has been so long since I broke you to my will that I sometimes forget that you once had a family and a home." His gaze dissected Brome's reactions. "You were training to be a carpenter, were you not?"

"Yes, my lord." And emaciated hands curled into fists at his bony sides.

"Hm." Saruman turned and swept onwards until they reached a deep pit near the heart of the labyrinth. "I am sure you have heard of wargs, Brome. They are wild creatures that live in the plains that attack small deer and horses. Normally, they are too timid to attack humans but I have been working with my generals," he nodded to a massive orc hovering just over Brome's shoulder, "to develop a breed that has no such hesitations."

Saruman chuckled. "Imagine our utter surprise and joy when all we had to do was introduce a bit of human flesh to them and they immediately began devouring everything white and pink that walked on two legs." He shook his head. "They are amazing creatures really – absolutely perfect for our needs."

A ferocious snarling arose from the pit accompanied by a deeper roar that seemed to echo off of the plank walkways.

"These wargs are new ones we have captured." Saruman gestured to the pit. "We have starved for several days now so that we introduce humans to their environment, they will not be recalcitrant to trying it."

Brome's eyes widened in fear and he began to back away.

The wizard let out a long-suffering sigh. "I like you, Brome, I really do. But you must understand that you have come to the end of your usefulness. You have been a good servant but now I fear that this coming war with Rohan will undo all the hard work I put into making you who you are today." He drew near to the trembling boy and smiled benevolently. "This way, you will die my servant – not a witless traitor."

"No!" Brome howled and threw himself backwards, passed the orc guards. His footing almost slipped on the walkway but he caught himself. He stared wildly at Saruman for a split second before turning and fleeing towards the surface.

A small laugh caused Saruman's lips to twist in malicious glee. "Chase him down," he ordered. "But do not kill him or it will be your flesh that will be fed to the wargs this night."

The orcs snarled in return and charged after the lean figure.

Saruman followed at a slower pace, his gaze eagerly tracking the pursuit. This had been more fun than he had originally thought it would be. He always loved a good chase – at least Brome would be good for something.

He watched as the lean young man tackled a confused orc guard that had moved to stand in his way, grappling briefly before getting his hands on the orc's blade. There was a harsh squeal and the orc expired on the tip of his own blade wielded by the skinny Brome. Wonderful amusement but soon it would come to an end.

Brome's strength had to be born from the fear of death – the young man had been kept near starvation in the darkness of Orthanc for months now. Saruman had no doubts that the energy would soon wane away and leave the young man at the mercy of the hulking orcs that were currently chasing him.

More of the orcs flooded up from their jobs and began to pursue the errant human through the wooden walkways and towards the surface.

The young man had turned and was pelting up a long wooden ramp that rattled under every pounding step. His head was bent downwards and in one hand he clutched the orcish weapon tightly.

Saruman's gaze darkened as his eyes took in what waited at the top of the ramp. Horses. If Brome managed to reach the horses… He took out his staff and pointed it in the young man's direction. Perhaps the fun would have to end prematurely.

An arrow flew through the air, causing Brome to stumble as it imbedded in the tender flesh of his thigh. Ten more steps and he would reach the horses. An orc appeared in front of the young man, snarling and raising a small hunting knife in the air. Brome simply used his momentum to drive the short sword he carried through the swarthy chest and dodged the falling body.

Saruman raised his staff and began whispering a spell.

Brome leaped forwards and landed clumsily on the back of the nearest horse, sword swinging forwards to cut the bindings that held the horse to the pole. The horse whinnied sharply but responded to the quick jab to her sides and lunged towards the relative freedom of the Rohirrim plains – her rider clinging desperately to her thick mane for dear life.

Blue lighting stretched from Saruman's staff, hurling towards the fleeing horse and rider.

The wizard smiled in satisfaction. This had been amusing – but all good things must come to an end some time.

But his victory celebration was premature.

Some miserable, unsuspecting orc lunged after the horse and inadvertently placed himself in the path of the lightning. The charge took the creature by surprise and he let out an animalistic howl, writhing as he fell backwards. He plummeted almost three and a half before crashing into a large vat filled with gray powder.

The vat toppled and fell with him until they both landed in the huge furnace that was used to furnish weapons.

Saruman's eyes widened and he barely had time to put a spell of protection around himself before a huge wall of flame shot up through the network of walkways, consuming all in its path.

Sounds of shrieking filled the air as orcs began to burn in the firestorm. Brome and the horse were forgotten in the frenzy of the moment.

Standing in the middle of the fire, Saruman began to chant quickly as he watched his hard work being destroyed. A breath passed and then the fire seemed to shrivel in on itself and fade into ashes.

Orcs that had managed to escape the heat cautiously picked themselves up and began to look around. A couple realized that roasted meat should not be wasted and set to eating the orcs that had been killed in the fire.

Saruman stood above it all and watched as Brome faded from sight. This was just a temporary setback. His plans would succeed.

The One Ring _and _the Heir of Isildur would soon be his.

**To be continued...**


	9. Though Right Was Worsted

**Disclaimer: **I own none of the recognizable characters in this story—they all belong to JRR Tolkien and New Line.

**Wherever the Surge May Sweep**

**By Jame K. **

_**Chapter Eight: Though Right Was Worsted**_

_One who never turned his back but marched breast forward,  
Never doubted clouds would break,  
Never dreamed, though right were worsted, wrong would triumph,  
Held we fall to rise, are baffled to flight better,  
Sleep to wake.  
- Robert Browning_

The man did not fit in Archet. His garment was a velvety red and was trimmed with a deeper gold. A tri-corn hat with a wide red feather sat jauntily on his head and wisps of black hair lay sedately against his head. The greasy strands seemed as if the life had been sucked from them with too many days of using lamp oil to tame their natural unruliness. He arrived in the town on a rickety, black carriage that he claimed had carried him from Bree.

When the women of Archet gave him odd, fleeting looks, he turned up his crooked hawk nose and wrinkled his long, thin mouth in an air of superiority. He sidestepped the frequent mud puddles with small, mincing steps and drew his cloak around him like it was a royal garment. His hands were encased in soft leather gloves that glowed dully in the midday sun.

Within an hour, the general consensus among Archet's women was that he was an arrogant and crass creature that did _not _belong in their town. This was quickly passed on to the husbands who told Bartmelou.

So when the stranger arrived at the inn, Bartmelou handed over the ale like he requested but refrained from making any conversation like he normally would do with an out of town stranger. In fact, Bartmelou was downright surly, casting cruel glances from his large eyes and shoving his wide girth around forcefully – as if the stranger's very smell perturbed him.

Mid-afternoon came and the stranger left the bar, heading down the street to the vacant lot where the schoolhouse sat.

Bartmelou watched him from his window and snorted "good riddance" to his wife sitting behind him. Then, the portly innkeeper put the intolerable stranger far from his mind and went back to preparing that night's brew. There was so much to do before business began booming once again.

The stranger stopped on the street just outside the schoolhouse and leaned against the stone corner of a nearby building. He waited there, speaking or looking to no one, and a permanent scowl was etched upon his strong features as his hooded eyes watched the school.

When the school bell rang, the man stood up a little straighter and tucked his hands into his pockets.

Children poured out the front door and he watched carefully as groups of little boys ran by with carefree abandonment.

Some of them shot wondering glances at the strange man but then continued on with their fellows. The man let them – none of them were the one he was looking for so carefully.

Then... "You, boy!" he pushed himself off of the wall and waded through the thick of children to a small dark-haired boy with huge gray eyes. "You are Estel, are you not?"

The child nodded, a happy smile curved on his face. "Yes, sir."

A strange parody of a smile came across the man's face and a choked laugh came from under-used windpipes. "Well, imagine seeing you here. Legolas has told me so much about you."

"You know Legolas?" Skepticism erased the smile and Estel folded his arms protectively around his chest.

"Of course, I know Legolas. He was a dear friend of mine for many years. Listen," the man reached into the folds of his cloak and drew out a folded piece of parchment that was sealed with red wax. "Can you give this to him for me? He will know who I am."

Estel took the letter tentatively. "All right."

The man patted his shoulder. "Good boy. Tell him I will be coming to see him in a few days." Then he looked warningly down at the small boy. "Be sure not to read the letter. It is just for Legolas's eyes. Can you do that?"

"Yes, sir." Estel smiled but it was a little bit forced.

"Thank you." The man backed away, fading back into the shadows of a nearby building. "Make sure you tell Legolas I am coming. And give him my greetings. He will know who I am."

Estel nodded and with one last wary glance at the strange man standing behind him, he turned and scampered off down the street with the letter clutched in one partially grimy palm. By the time he reached the main section of town, he was shouting for his friends to wait up.

The man watched him go with a strange, genuine smile stretching his face. That had been too easy. His master would be so pleased and there would be no mistakes this time. The Heir of Isildur would be theirs.

* * *

Brome swayed and almost fell from his wearied horse when his eyes first gazed on the dirty, ramshackle houses of one of Rohan's outer villages. Tears fell down his sallow, hollowed cheeks and he clutched tightly to the dirty mane of the tired mare he had been riding for close to four days.

Within a few moments, he was leaning heavily on his horse in the dusty town square, looking at a passel of unfamiliar faces and asking anyone in his line of sight for word on his mother and sister.

Blank faces stared back at him and mouth whispered just out of his hearing. Pitying glances were exchanged and a few women offered him water.

When it became clear that no one had heard of his mother, Brome asked to be taken to the king. "Saruman," he croaked – on hand gesturing futilely in the direction of Isengard. "Do you not understand? He will come after Rohan."

And the townspeople believed him. The scars and wounds on his body verified his story when the wild gleam in his eyes could not. They had touched his shoulders and comforted him.

"We believe you," they said as they gave him water to drink. "It will be all right. We believe you."

Eventually, he was convinced to rest the night in one of the tiny abodes and take some sustenance for his malnourished body. The townspeople promised that they would help him reach the king on the morrow.

A farmer's wife drew him a bath and fed him so bland soup before tucking him into the softest bed that the young man could ever remember being in. He murmured his thanks and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

It took him a little over a week to reach the king and present his story to Fengel – current king of Rohan. He explained what he had seen and begged the king to take immediate action – to seek help from Gondor, from the elves, from anyone who would come to their aid.

Fengel, however, was a lazy, pleasure-loving king and brushed off the young man's words with a wave of his hand. "It will be well," he said and fondled the nubile breasts of the young woman hanging decadently over his once-regal throne. "Saruman will not seek Rohan. What have we here that he would desire? No – he will pass over us as the drought passes over weeds."

Brome was taken to his mother's home then and his words were put out of the king's mind.

But – fortunately for the good of all of Middle-earth – someone did remember the words of the emaciated young man. Someone who realized what the situation meant – someone who would make sure that something was done.

* * *

_My Dearest Thranduillion,_

_I feel I must apologize deeply for not contacting you in these past five years. I can assure you though; you and your young charge have always been on my mind as I go about this accursed hunt for that blasted piece of jewelry. My search leads me to the many depths of Middle-earth but I feel I may at last be drawing close to the actual location of Isildur's bane. I shall not tell you where I am for this letter may fall into unfriendly hands just as easily at it may fall into yours._

_There had been foul news on the wind of late, my friend, and I urge you to be cautious. Rumor has reached me that Saruman has sent many men all over Middle-earth hunting for your charge. I fear that they are coming closer. Lórien has sent me dreams that have been dark of late and I fear for the boy's safety – and your own._

_I encourage you, Legolas – if you have not already bonded with the boy, do so at once. I realize that it is not the typicality for an elf to create a mental bond with a mortal but your circumstances are far from normal. You have the strength of mind to perform the task – of that I have no doubt._

_My candle grows short so this letter must end. May the Valar keep you, young one, and I will visit you when I can._

_Mithrandir. _

Yellow sunlight reflected oddly against the dull polish of the wooden table as Legolas gently set the dirtied sheet of paper down. His hand lingered atop the curvy handwriting for a moment, tracing the unique letters, before he rubbed the skin between his eyes fiercely.

For five years, there had been no word from Mithrandir – no sign that the wizard had still even been alive. And then – one normal day – the wizard writes him with dire warnings and instructions. Legolas would have been offended if he had not been so preoccupied over the wizard's cryptic words.

He too had felt the uneasiness in his gut – the feeling of unfriendly eyes watching from the darkness of the woods. The trees had swayed and cried out in trepidation and the stars had shivered high above.

Yes, something had been dreadfully wrong in the world; but Legolas had never been able to put a name to the stirrings or a finger on his misgivings – until now. Someone was hunting – hunting him and Estel. The very thought turned his heart inside out and his guts to ice water

Suddenly, Estel could not get home from school fast enough. The one mile journey from the walls of Archet to their house now seemed an insurmountable exodus across legions of enemy territory.

Why had Legolas not gone into town to wait for him? What if even now Saruman's cursed spies lingered just inside the tree line beyond the path, waiting – just waiting – for a young boy to trot by without a care in the world and no knowledge of the danger that was eagerly reaching for him? Would they kill him at once or just take him to their master? Would Legolas ever see the boy again if Estel was snatched away? Or would the elf always be left wondering what had really happened?

Legolas stood quickly, the backs of his knees hitting the wooden edge of the chair in his haste. His eyes remained fixed on the outside of the window – on the bright blue sky with white clouds and the brown strip of a road that led to the walls of Archet. The vacant path that he knew Estel would arrive on.

No. He forced himself to sit back down in the chair and lean back against the smooth wood surface. Everything was fine. Dark eyebrows bunched together and Legolas urged himself into take deep breaths. He was an elf – thousands of years old – and used to living in the dark times. He would _not _go running after a child that would be home from school at any moment.

Legolas would just sit here and wait for him. In fact – the elf got to his feet again and went over to the cupboards – he would start dinner for Estel. The boy would probably be hungry after school.

But his sea blue eyes were drawn towards the window again and again – waiting for that little black speck to appear on the light brown of the road. He tried to reach out with his mind and question the trees about the boy's whereabouts but the leafy vegetation was silent.

Pale hands rubbed the soft blue material of his over-tunic in a nervous gesture that Legolas had never quite grown out of. The face was fixed on the dinner preparations save for his eyes, which darted rapidly between the door and the letter lying on the table. And the uneasy feeling deep in his innards grew with every bit the sun slipped downwards towards the trees.

Dark was beginning to fall and a chill breeze had picked up over the plain when Legolas first spotted the dark figure of Estel walking up the road. The boy had obviously stopped for some sort of a game with his fellows and his feet were dragging as he clomped up the dusty path.

A luminous smile swelled across Legolas's face and he set down the pan he had been holding with more force then was necessary. Glancing down at the letter, Legolas swept it into one of his inner pockets. With another look at the approaching boy, the elf retired to the living room, sitting himself gracefully in one of the threadbare chairs before the cold fireplace.

When the door swung open with a rusty creak, Legolas had busily engrossed himself with a slender red book. His blue eyes drifted upwards and he threw a normal smile at the boy. "Hello. Was it a good day?"

"Yes." Estel walked over and flopped wearily on the chair next to the elf. "It was swell."

Legolas wrinkled his cheeks. He still did not like that word. "Dinner will be ready soon." The dying sunlight cast odd shadows across his face as he leaned towards Estel. "Go to bed early. You seem exhausted."

Estel nodded and turned his face so he could look the elf straight in the eye. He smiled and pointed to the book still in Legolas's hand. "I was wondering where my Primer had gone off to."

"It looked interesting." The elf examined the gold-lettering and then hastily set the book down. "Go wash up."

The boy ran his fingers through his long, dark hair and stood with a grunt. "We were playing ball by the river. It was fun." He smiled again. "Oh – wait." One grubby hand dug into his jacket and produced a worn letter. "I met a man today after school. Said he knew you and told me to give you this. He said he would be coming around sometime soon."

The letter fluttered down to the small round table and Legolas stared at the folded paper with narrowed eyes. "A letter?" One dark brow arched upwards as he took the letter up and examined the unfamiliar red seal. "Did you recognize him?"

"No. He had funny clothes." Estel shrugged and then walked towards his room. "I do not think he was from Archet."

A little bit of red wax crumbled on to Legolas's lap when he broke the seal but he barely noticed. Only one line had been hastily written on the weathered paper but Legolas felt his breath hitch in his chest anyways.

_Saruman sends his regards. _

"Are you going to be helping Bartmelou this week? He was asking about you when I went by the store and…" Estel's voice faded away as he came back into the room and peered at Legolas. "What is the matter?"

The burgundy material of the chair shone in the fading sun and washed out any color in Legolas's fair cheeks, making the deep eyes look especially vibrant. The pupils had darkened and the mouth was lined with fear. "A man, you said?" Legolas whispered softly, his hand covering the letters.

"Yes. After school." Estel felt the trepidation from across the room and moved to sit on the arm of the chair next to the elf. His small hand rested on Legolas's muscled shoulder and he leaned his forehead against the bent blond head, his breath rusting the soft strands. "What is wrong?"

Legolas adjusted slightly so his arms were about the small shoulders, feeling the worn material of the shirt and the bumps of shoulder blades. "You need to eat more," he murmured and touched a thin wrist, the tips of his fingers touching as he wrapped them about the thin forearm. "You are too skinny and you are growing every day. They will think I am letting you waste away."

"Is it about the man?" Estel's eyes – the color of a stormy river – blinked in to Legolas's blue ones. "I am all right."

The elf smiled and patted the tip of the boy's nose. A laugh seemed to waver on his lips before he looked away with a slight frown and darkened eyes. White teeth gently nibbled at his lower lip and he wavered only a moment before he came to a decision. "There is something… I would like to talk to you about."

Estel nodded.

Legolas took a deep breath through his mouth and expelled it slowly through his nose. "I would… Sometimes, elves will form mental bonds with those they are close too. They can enable two people to communicate mentally over long distances." Legolas gauged Estel's expression. "It would not hurt. Most say it at first feels like a small tingle and then soon you become used to it…"

Dark brown hair glistened dully in the light as the boy ran one finger over a wavy section, pushing it into place. "Sounds swell." He leaned back with a sigh, his eyes fixed unerringly on Legolas's concerned face. "I trust you."

The elf shifted again, his hand tightening around the boy – offering comfort and gentleness to the boy he had taken as his own. His breathing sounded loud in his own ears as he realized what a step he would be taking. From this point on, Estel – body, soul, and spirit – would be bound to him in every way – for better or for worse. "Would you permit me?"

"Mhm."

"Close your eyes." Legolas raised slim fingers and touched the smooth, tan temples softly. "It will only take a moment. Just relax," he breathed and his own eyes slipped shut.

In Legolas's mental eyes, the little spirit of Estel shone like a bright little star – warm and pulsating in its innocence. His mind stretched towards it even as he shoved images of doing this same task with a young Arathorn. He would not allow those memories to taint the present in anyway.

Blood seemed to move sluggishly through his veins and air turned to thick water. Oxygen whooshed in and out of lungs as Legolas mentally reached forwards, pushing the thoughts of Arathorn into the background of his mind.

Legolas's heart thumped then skipped a beat before thumping again and the elf knew that the boy's heartbeat was matching his own. Another moment and Legolas took the core of Estel's spirit into the folds of his own mind, trying to bathe it with reassurances and love.

A flash of fear clouded the boy's thoughts as he became aware of the new presence existing inside his head. The mind trembled and tried to shy away from the intruder.

_Peace,_ he whispered directly to the boy's mind. _It is done. _The elf opened his eyes and smiled at the stunned face of the boy as the stormy gray eyes popped open. _Was that so bad?_

The soft tanned skin between Estel's eyes furrowed and he touched his temple where Legolas's fingers had been moments before. "I can hear you in here," he said wonderingly. "It sounds just like you. Swell."

"Well, it should." Legolas smiled. "You can do the same. Reach towards me. It will get easier with time."

Estel scrunched his mouth into a ball and leaned forwards, closer to the elf as if he could augment the strength of his thoughts with his physical proximity to Legolas. _Like this? _The mental voice was weak and tentative as it gently echoed within Legolas's mind. "Was that good?" he asked.

Legolas's eyes went unfocused as the innocent words brought back a flood of memories that he had tried so hard to bury. His fingers clutched the rough cloth tightly and he clenched the muscles in his shoulder as Arathorn's voice echoed in his mind like a broken record – an ancient relic of the past that was best left unfound_. Was that good, Legolas? Can you hear me in your head?_

"Very good," the elf whispered to the memory and the flesh and blood before him. "Very good, my young one." His hand squeezed Estel's upper arm and with some difficulty, he focused on Estel's face. "Good."

Estel smiled. "Will it ever leave?"

"No – no. The bond can become clouded at one end or the other but the only way it can be fully broken is death." Legolas's face twisted bitterly at the memories. "And then the separation is very painful."

"Oh." The boy's face was impressed and his eyes thoughtful as he contemplated this new development in his life. "I do not mind," he said at last, assuaging Legolas's unspoken worries. "It sounds swell."

Legolas laughed. "Very swell." He smiled and stood to his feet, still holding Estel against his hip. He glanced out at the darkened sky and the few stars just beginning to twinkle. "I love you," he whispered – too quiet, he knew, for Estel's mortal ears to catch but he wanted to say it anyway.

Instead of fussing about being carried like a child – as was normal – Estel turned his face into Legolas's chest and sighed. "I love you, too."

* * *

"Have you heard the reports?"

The Hall of the Kings was all gray – gray pillars, gray floor, gray steps, gray sunlight filtering through gray windows. Even the Steward of Gondor – Turgon – had gray-streaked hair and thick gray robes with murky gray eyes. Thengel, son of Fengel, normally found the absence of color relaxing but now it just served to make him impatient. "I heard vague details. Saruman moves on Rohan."

Turgon absently brushed strands of his graying hair back from his high brow as his noble robe swept the floor in the midst of his quick pacing. "He creates a new army in the very depths of Isengard. My spies have informed me that he has bred a new kind of orc in his secret dungeons – an orc that will not be wearied by the sunlight – a harder, sturdier orc.

"They say that a fire wiped out some of his work but it will not be long until he rebuilds all that he lost. I fear that it will be only a matter of time until Rohan will be overrun by his legions of orcs." A heavy sigh passed from aging lips and cloudy eyes darkened. "Never has the burden of Steward of Gondor laid so heavily upon me, young prince of Rohan."

"My father," Thengel hesitated, his large blue-gray eyes drifting out the western windows in the direction of Edoras, "he is not suitable to lead an army. Do not hesitate to say it, my lord. I know my father's weaknesses quite well."

"I fear Rohan will fall if we do nothing." Turgon paused to study the young man standing in front of him, tenderness lining the aged wrinkles on his cheeks. "But I do not think your father will ask for or accept our help. He is a stubborn man."

Thengel's wide jaw tensed and he looked down at his roughened hands. "And if I were made king?"

The tapping feet of the guard outside the Hall was the only sound in the solemn stone chamber as both men stared at each other for several long moments. Blue-gray eyes clashed with solemn gray – evaluating honesty and fighting for dominance. At last Thengel looked away – his gaze seeking the direction of the Golden Hall.

"The words you speak," Turgon said with some desperation even as his eyes hardened with a deep resolve that could not – would not – be shaken by anything. "These words… could be considered treasonous against your father. Know that before you proceed. You must be clear in your course"

"I know." Thengel's right hand rested on his left hand, fingering the twisted silver and gold ring – the sign of his royal lineage, the sign of his devout commitment to Rohan. "I know. There never has been a great love that has existed between my father and me. I cannot allow Rohan to fall for any reason – even my own father – and I will go against my father if the events come to that."

The steward nodded in acceptance and turned to face the window and the gray, cloudy day lingering outside. "I will support you. Though your years are few, I believe you possess more wisdom now than Fengel ever will. Gondor will stand behind Rohan if there is to be a new king."

"My thanks," Thengel bowed at the waist and approached the slightly stooped shoulders of the older man. "Now – as a friend – what burdens your thoughts so deeply, my friend?"

Turgon's smile was without humor as his lips compressed into a tight, thin line that paled drastically in contrast to his slightly tan skin. His tragic gaze refused to meet the steady blue one of Rohan's crown prince standing just next to him. Instead, he kept his eyes locked on the reddish glow emanating from the hills in the direction of Mordor. "I am close to fifty years your elder and still you name me your friend. This has always puzzled me – and gladdened my heart in the darkest of times."

Thengel drew closer to the man, daring to place a strong, callused hand on of the shoulders. "You have been a father when Fengel was a crass idiot. You are my friend and my mentor. Now, I seek as a caring son to ease your burdens. What hangs over you like a cloud?"

"This invasion – this ploy of Saruman – is not the end of the darkness. Mount Doom is alive and Sauron's breath smolders all green things and leaves my land desolate. A shadow has fallen over this whole realm and I fear we will never escape its darkness unless some drastic measures are taken. Gondor wanes under my rule," and the Steward of Gondor raised a hand to silence Thengel's protestation. "We need the true king to come forth and lead this country once again.

"They say that the elves protected the line throughout the ages but I have no knowledge of whether they have been successful. I plan to send a missive to Lord Elrond of Rivendell and request his assistance in this matter. If we are to defeat this evil, all free people of Middle-earth must unite under one banner as they did under the Last Alliance of Men and Elves." Turgon's mouth creased and his brown eyes were deep and solemn in their contemplation.

Pale yellow sunlight streaked from a break in the clouds and illuminated the plain beyond the White City. Thengel's eyes, however, were fixed on the black hills of Mordor and the glowing orange that was now a constant presence hanging over the ugly specter of Mount Doom.

"We will preserve, my lord," he said quietly, his hands braced on the stone window sill. "Even if there is only one courageous man standing at the end of all things, evil will not have triumphed."

**To be continued…**


	10. Slender Strings

**Disclaimer: **I own none of the recognizable characters in this story—they all belong to JRR Tolkien and New Line.

**Wherever the Surge May Sweep**

**By Jame K. **

_**Chapter Nine: Slender Strings**_

_All human things  
Of dearest value hang on slender strings.  
- Edmund Waller_

The week-old bond in the back of Estel's mind was blue – blue like the warm sunlight on a deep, still pond. When Estel closed his eyes, he could see the warm spot shimmer, pulsate, and tremble with vitality. If he reached out towards the warm, blue depths of the bond, he could feel Legolas's gentle presence residing somewhere on the other side, sending back waves of comfort to the boy.

Estel smiled and quickened his steps along the muddy, frozen path. Home – and the warmth it provided – was only a few more steps away. The lashing rain of early winter had begun the night before and had continued until just before dawn. Along with the storm, had come cooler temperatures and frozen dew on the dying grass.

The last week since the formation of the bond had been fairly normal. Estel had gone to school, come home, helped with the chores, eaten dinner – their mundane routine. But Legolas had been on edge since that night. Nothing extremely noticeable, just little stuff – little lines around his mouth whenever Estel was a little late in getting home – his eyes going distant as he stared out the window. And he had begun to teach Estel how to use a knife.

Skeleton trees were covered with white, dripping icicles and turbulent clouds rolled through the sky overhead – warnings of another storm. The biting wind nipped at Estel's exposed, reddened nose and the boy tucked his hands deep within the brown folds of his cloak with a slight shiver.

The air smelled of coming snow and Estel could not help the little grin that stole across his chapped, freezing lips. Snow meant sledding, snowball fights – and staying home from school when the paths to town were too treacherous.

Squinting his eyes against the sharp wind that was continually battering his numb face, Estel could just make out the shadowy shape of the wooden house as it stood dark and hulking against the grayness of the clouds. If he squinted, he thought he could see the dim light of a fire reflecting through one of the glass windows.

He could imagine the warmth of that fire that he knew Legolas had built for him – and the hot tea that Legolas had probably brewed for him. He thought of the warm blankets that would be laid out and the thick soup that Legolas was probably making at this very second.

Estel shivered in anticipation as he quickened his footsteps. A patch of invisible ice crunched loudly beneath his booted feet and Estel curled his toes inside of his woolen socks. Oh, yes, he could not wait to be warm again. With another little grin, he focused his thoughts on the warm bond, reaching out as Legolas had taught him so that he could speak to the elf.

_I am nearly home,_ he mentally called with a smile.

He had expected to be answered by Legolas's soft mental voice and a pulse of warmth that would stave off the biting cold until he reached the threshold of his home. He had definitely _not _expected to feel the flash of cold fear from the elf that echoed painfully inside of his head for many moments afterwards.

His eyes went wide and his footsteps ceased as he put one hand on his temple as he fought to think clearly amidst the pain emanating from the bond. What had happened to Legolas? He turned his face towards the dark house and quickened his steps, careful not to slip on the icy ground.

_Legolas! I am coming._

_No!_

The power of Legolas's mental voice made Estel lose his balance on a patch of ice. His arms pin-wheeled through the cold air for a moment before he found himself on his back staring up at the gray sky – the wind knocked out of him. He lay still for what seemed to be a long time, his mouth opened as he tried to draw air into his wheezing lungs. He was finally able to draw a deep breath through his nose and staggered to his feet, one hand fumbling at his waist for the small knife that Legolas had gifted him with several days before.

_Stay away, Estel. Return to the town immediately and stay at the inn._

Estel hesitated when he heard Legolas's soft mental words, his gaze looking towards the house and then towards the town. Then, he resolutely pushed towards the house. A wave of pain that did not come from his own body crashed into him and he stumbled to his knees with a cry.

Inside of his head, the mental bond with Legolas was still that gorgeous blue color but now – instead of pulsating warmly like Estel had become accustomed to – the light seemed to tremble with pain and fear. It would dim and then brighten and Estel could no longer feel Legolas's gentle presence at the other end.

The cold no longer mattered to Estel as he stumbled towards the house. All that existed was the pulse of pain he had felt from the elf. Legolas was always so stalwart – so courageous. What kind of pain could cause him to unintentionally broadcast the hurt towards Estel?

Rain began to splatter across his face and he ran one hand across his eyes so that he could see the house as it loomed closer through the dull light. Dread gripped the boy's heart in icy and bitter claws when he realized the front door of the house had been left hanging open. Legolas would never have done that intentionally.

He was within four strides of the house when a dark figure stepped from the shadows lining the side of the house and stood right in front of him. Huge arms were folded across a massive chest as the man stared down at him.

"Well. What is this?"

Estel choked slightly at the sudden appearance and tried to dodge around the dark figure of the man.

Firm hands caught his shoulders and he was hoisted into the air, kicking and screaming. His hand once again gripped around his small knife and he drew it from his cloak. Still struggling, he twisted in the man's grip and stabbed the small blade deep into the man's upper chest.

The man let go of him with a cry as he stumbled backwards hand coming up to touch the gushing wound.

Estel held the knife in one trembling hand as he lay sprawled where the man had dropped him, his eyes wide with fear. An instant later, he was scrambling to his feet – ready to fight the man again. His mouth was open and his chest jerked with his heavy panting. Blood dripped from the white blade onto his boot and was quickly washed away by the snow.

With a soft thump, the man fell onto his back and lay still. His breathing was loud and heavy in the shrieking wind.

Shock creeping across Estel's face, he swallowed hard and resisted the urge to drop the knife to the ground. Legolas needed him. With another deep breath, he turned and ran up the steps into the house.

A warm fire was burning brightly in the stone fireplace but Estel took no comfort from it as he moved quietly through the living room towards the kitchen. His entire being was focused on the loud voices he could hear coming from that room. Carefully, he peeked his head around the door jam.

Legolas's back was turned to Estel, facing a tall man that Estel recognized as the one who had given him the letter. Two other men flanked the elf, holding wicked looking swords in one hand while their other hand held Legolas's upper arms. A rope trailed down from Legolas's hands and Estel realized with a start that the elf's hands were bound in front of him.

"I imagine my friend has captured that little boy of yours by now, my lord. They should be here any moment." The tall man smiled chillingly.

Legolas made no response to the man that Estel could hear but the boy noticed that Legolas's back had stiffened considerably. The boy tried to reach across their bond but found it firmly blocked from Legolas's end. Estel doubted that Legolas had even realized that he was there.

"Saruman has looked long and hard for you across all of Middle-earth. He will be so pleased when he finally lays eyes on you and your charge – bound and at his abject mercy. I am sure that I will be generously rewarded for all my trials." The tall man smirked and moved closer to the elf. "You have failed to keep him safe, my lord. I trust you will always remember that. Though," the tall man bent his head to study his fingernails. "With what my lord has planned for you two, I doubt you will have time to mourn for long."

"You will never take him." Legolas's voice seemed harsher then was normal and his hands twisted in the rope. "I have sent him to the town. The townspeople will not give him up to you. You have failed."

An ugly sneer twisted the man's face and he drew his fist back. Legolas tried to dodge but his hands were tied – and the men holding him were strong.

Estel almost shrieked when the fist connected with Legolas's face and a spray of blood went up in the air. The boy jammed his own fist in his mouth and gnawed on his still numb knuckles as his eyes filled with tears.

With his eyes squeezed shut, Estel did not see the second punch but he heard skin meet skin and the harsh grunt the tall man made when he connected. Tears stung at the back of his eye lids and his fingernails dug blood from his palm.

And he knew that Legolas wanted him to flee to the safety of the town. He knew that he was too small to go up against three full-grown men with only a small knife – he would lose. He knew and his mind urged him to follow Legolas's instructions – surely the elf knew what was best.

But he also knew that he could never just abandon Legolas to the mercy of these men. He could never stand by and allow Legolas to be hurt.

So Estel brushed the tears from his eyes and felt the smooth handle of the knife on the inside of his fist. His trembling muscles calmed and he straightened slightly. And when the next punch slammed into the elf's stomach and Legolas doubled over, gasping for his lost wind, Estel lunged from his hiding place and threw himself at the back of one of men holding Legolas.

Surprise was on Estel's side and he managed to sink the blade into the man's lower back before the man reacted with a yowl as he tumbled to the ground, hands grappling uselessly for the small boy.

Estel hardly noticed the spray of blood that came with the knife when he yanked it out of the man's back. As he felt another set of hands enclose about him, cruelly biting into his muscle, he saw the crystal blue eyes of Legolas – widened in absolute fear and horror. Wrenching one arm free of the man's grip for a moment, he threw the knife through the air – hoping that somehow Legolas would catch it.

Then he knew nothing as he was thrown across the room like an errant puppy. His head slammed into the thick, wooden wall and his vision hazed yellow. He could not seem to find the will – or the strength – to rise from where he had crumpled at the base of the wall.

The only thing that seemed to be functioning properly was his ears – and he heard clearly sounds of flesh hitting flesh and groans of hurting men. Through the complete yellowy haze that had become his sight, he saw Legolas using his discarded knife to fend off the tall man – even though the elf's hands were still bound.

Deep nausea swept over the boy and Estel groaned, turning his face to the coolness of the plank floor. There was a terrible pain in his ribs and he experimentally drew a deep breath. Sharp pangs of agony engulfed his fragile psyche and he fell into waiting darkness.

It could have been seconds – could have been minutes or hours – Estel had no way of telling. Time was non-existent in the dark void he had been cast into by the tight pain – forever seemed to have passed in the blink of an eye. But, nonetheless, he was grateful when slivers of light shot through the empty blackness and the soft rumble of Legolas's voice reached his ears.

His mouth felt incredibly heavy and he twisted his head to smell the clean, woodsy scent that had always signified Legolas. "Mhm," he mumbled, slowly dragging his eyes open. "Legolas…"

There was a sharp intake of breath and a gentle hand was touching his brow, smoothing his hair, and caressing his cheeks.

"Ai, Valar," Legolas murmured in his ear, his voice catching just a little as if tears were rising in his throat to speedily for him to quell in a moment. "You are awake. I – I was afraid."

Blond hair and fair skin blurred into an indistinct muddle and Estel frowned. He was dimly aware of being cradled in strong arms and a firm hand supporting the back of his head, which was good – his brain felt impossibly heavy and Estel did not think he could have held it up on his own. "What…"

"Shush." A finger was gently laid against his unwieldy lips. "Lay still. There is nasty bump on your head and I think you cracked your ribs."

So that explained the sharp pain when he took a breath. Thoughts tumbled incoherently and Estel reached up to grasp Legolas's hand. Scarlet joined the mix of pastels that had become Legolas. "You… hurt…"

The hesitation after his whisper made Estel's heart jump.

"I am fine," and the elf's voice was as soft and tender as the hand smoothing Estel's dark brown hair. "Just a scratch." There was the sound of material shifting and then a smooth, rounded cup was held to Estel's mouth and cool water lapped against his closed lips. "Here – drink."

Water dissolved the sawdust binding Estel's tongue and he choked slightly as the water cleaned his throat. The coolness of the liquid caused the mist settled over his thoughts to thin and vanish. Memories came into sharp remembrance and Estel jerked in Legolas's arms. His panicked, gray eyes scanned the room beyond Legolas's shoulder – three bodies, all lying dreadfully still.

"They are dead," Legolas murmured in a steely voice, his grip marginally tightening around Estel's shoulders. "Do not concern yourself over it. Everything will be fine."

"You…you…" Estel shook. _Someone must have left the door open_, he thought.That would explain the chill permeating the air. He shuddered again and drew closer to the warmth of the link with Legolas.

Giant walls still hung between them – blocking their bond – but when Estel's gentle consciousness nudged against them – the barriers dissolved and the boy was immersed in Legolas's warmth and comfort. He sighed in relief as he felt healing energy stream over the bond, vanquishing the aches and pains that had been tormenting his body since his collision with the wall.

Estel snuffled and buried his head in Legolas's chest – indefinable emotions corkscrewing through his brain. "You killed them… I… I killed them." Tears began to flow then and he clutched at the blue tunic. When he could not hold back the sobs any longer, he muffled his cries in the strong chest.

Legolas's hands stilled for a moment then they resumed stroking Estel's hair. His lilting voice murmured soft, comforting words that made his chest rumble against the boy's forehead. When Estel's cries had finally quieted, the elf lifted him from the floor like an eagle taking her child under her wing.

Strong hands snuggled him into his bed and a soft hand brushed at the dark strands that were falling into his eyes. Sleep swam at the edges of Estel's consciousness and his eyes stung with unshed tears.

Soft lips pressed a kiss to his forehead and then Estel heard a soft exhale as Legolas had set all of his worries free in that single breath. The air moved slightly as Legolas stood up to his full height.

"Some things," said Legolas quietly – his voice hoarse and low, "are worth killing for – are worth dying for."

And when Estel woke up several hours later, the bodies were gone and Legolas was cooking dinner.

* * *

The Golden Hall of Edoras was strewn with the best of the young Rohirrim men and women. Young, strong bodies in various states of undress were lounging about the stone floor. Golden skin offset by blond hair shone in the candlelight and silver chains twinkled between nubile breast and bronzed chests.

Thengel, prince of Rohan, kept his stone blue eyes straight ahead – fixed on an elegant tapestry hanging behind the throne. He imagined he could see each individual thread in the tapestry – he imagined that there was not a naked, virile young man draped in an alluring fashion across his father's lap – he imagined that the King of Rohan was not currently fondling said young man with decidedly unsavory intentions. He bit his inner cheek until metallic blood oozed onto his tongue – he imagined that there was nothing but the pain in his mouth.

Directly in front of him, the crier looked just to be just about as uncomfortable as the crown prince – hands nervously fumbling with the long scroll he held against his abdomen. He drew himself to his full height and fixed his eyes on the ceiling – his scarlet clad chest was puffed outwards and the buttons showed off their polish. "His highness – the prince of Rohan – Thengel, son of Fengel – and the Lord of the plains has arrived in the Golden Hall." He ended his speech with a flourishing bow then speedily disappeared into the shadows of the pillars.

Fengel raised languid blue eyes to study his son while his hand continued to stroke the tawny skin stretched over his lap – over the pectoral muscles and the passed the defined abdomen – venturing lower than Thengel cared to see. "So, my no good son returns from his duties as consort to the Gondorian pigs. Tell me, is Turgon as well-endowed as he appears?"

"Do not say such things." Thengel took two steps forwards and brushed the away the pale wandering hands of a slender female. "The good Steward has more nobility then you will ever hope to obtain."

The king of Rohan laughed and the strange noise echoed against the wooden pillars. He roughly shoved the young man from his lap – much to Thengel abject relief – and stood to his feet. Wavering jerkily for a few moments, he staggered forwards and clutched at his son's tunic. "Why have you come here, hm? Waiting for me to die so you can take the throne?"

"Saruman seeks to come against Rohan," Thengel leaned away from the rich, wine-scented breath that blew across his face like a hellish wind. "Our defenses must be strengthened quickly or he will take us. He will destroy us."

"Saruman?" Fengel shoved outwards causing his son to stumble away. "He is nothing but a cheap conjurer. He can have no victory over our mighty army." The king flung his arm outwards and was met by the cheers of his consorts – the sound of jackals admiring their prey.

"No! He is strong. He breeds an army in the depths of Isengard. An army that will destroy us!" Thengel started after his father, one hand stretched out beseechingly to the king's back. He must make his father understand. He must get through the lustful haze and show his father that…

"If you insist." His father turned drunkenly, his arms outstretched to maintain his precarious balance. "If you insist on ruining the mood of my fine hall – I suggest you take your doomsday predictions elsewhere. If you are right... who cares? Let us eat drink and be merry – for tomorrow we die." He raised the wineglass that had appeared in his hand and golden fluid jostled over the rim.

The consorts laughed and cheered their agreement as their jewelry jangled.

Thengel just shook his head. "Please, Father, if you would just take a moment to listen – I know you would see the importance…"

"Be silent!" Fengel's eyes blazed. "I will not have you enter my court and darken my lively pets with your warmongering. Be gone!"

"But, Father…"

"Go! Or I will have the guards drag you."

Thengel sketched a sharp bow to his father's back. His face was tightly closed and his eyes were hard and cutting – like a perfectly formed diamond. "As you wish, my lord," and his voice was caustic with bitterness.

Rowdy laughter followed his departure and Thengel was grateful when the thick wooden door swung shut and cut off the noise. He paused for a moment, his nostrils flaring like a well-bred stallion. When his temper had been checked and serenity had been returned to his eyes, the prince turned to his manservant.

"Send a message," he murmured as they walked down the hall, "to the Steward of Gondor. Tell him my father refuses to heed my council. Other measures will need to be taken if Rohan is to survive."

"Yes, my lord."

* * *

Saruman drew his smooth staff close to his breast and his dark eyes froze over. "They are all dead?"

The man before him quailed in terror at the viciousness lingering just under the wizard's placid features. "I – I assume so. None of them returned… it has been weeks since they last sent word. We can only guess that the elf disposed of them…"

"I do not want guesses!" The staff pounded the marble floor. "I want facts. Give me facts or leave my sight."

Underneath the power of the wizard's gaze, the man shrunk in on himself. His body bobbed with his hasty ablutions. "I assure you, o great one, soon we will have them. They cannot avoid us forever."

"No? But the elf has disposed of all of best bounty hunters in Middle-earth. He seems to be doing an excellent job of avoiding you." Saruman sneered in derision and spun around, his gaze settling on the covered palantir only a few steps away. "Men are weak, sniveling cowards. Nothing more."

"We have reason to believe, my lord, that this last man got closer to the elf than any before him. On his last missive, he had a fair idea of where the elf was holed up. He must have gotten awfully close…"

"Leave my sight at once!"

With another deep bow and an apprehensive glance at the angry Maia, the man scurried away, his footsteps shuffling against the slick floor. The door shut with a muffled boom behind him

Saruman turned his face to the dirtied window that broke the black monotony of Orthanc's walls. Weary sunlight filtered through and he could make out the vaguest outline of the green trees in Fangorn Forest.

Within a week, Rohan would fall to his troops. That languorous King Fengel did not have a breath of a chance. Then Saruman would be free to begin his crusade against Gondor – perhaps that would provide more of a challenge for his armies. But Gondor would fall eventually.

And, then, the elves would stand alone. If they did not flee over the sea like the cowards they were – Saruman would crush them.

There was only one thing that would stand in his way…

Saruman's fist clenched around his staff until his knuckles turned a yellowish white. Legolas could not hide that boy for long. The wizard would not allow it. Drastic measures would have to be taken now. Legolas could _not _be allowed to interfere with his plans.

He ripped the cloth covering from the palantir and focused his will upon the seeing-stone. Within moments, the flame-wreathed eye appeared and Sauron's voice echoed within his mind.

_What does my servant wish for?_

The Wizard smiled. _I would ask my lord Sauron to release the Nine from Mordor so that they might capture Isildur's heir and kill the elf. Once that is done, he will be delivered into our hands at last. His soul will be bent to our whims._

Flames sparked from depths of the black eye. _Your request is granted, the Nine will ride again._ And the palantir was dark once more.

Saruman covered the stone carefully and turned once more to the window. His teeth barred in a menacing grin – like a starving tiger when it has come upon a wounded gazelle.

That poor, deluded, exiled king of Greenwood… Did Legolas truly hope to stand up to the combined might of Saruman and Sauron? Did the elf think he could save Isuldir's heir from their long grasp?

Sunlight faded behind a cloud and the chamber grew dark.

The winds of fate blew with Saruman's will.

**To be continued…**


	11. And If Forever

**Disclaimer: **I own none of the recognizable characters in this story—they all belong to JRR Tolkien and New Line.

**Wherever the Surge May Sweep**

**By Jame K. **

_**Chapter Ten: And If Forever…**_

_Fare thee well! and if for ever,_

_Still for ever, fare thee well.  
- Lord Byron _

King Thengel of Rohan stood just beyond the door of the Golden Hall. His nut-brown hand was resting on the golden scabbard of his sword and his blue eyes were gazing out over the rolling, yellowish plains.

It had been a little over three years since he had left the service of Steward Turgon and returned to his homeland – desperate to convince his father to fight – to do _something _– against Saruman's approaching hordes.

And it had been a little less than a year since he had taken the throne of Rohan as his own. Thankfully, the takeover had not been as bloody as all were expecting. In the two years that Thengel had resided in the land, he had gathered followers to himself – which was not hard to do as Saruman destroyed village after village.

Then, just two months before the coup had been set in motion. Fengel had taken ill and died in his sleep just a few days later. The doctors said that consumption had taken hold of the king's aging body and had sent him to his grave – they said it was tragic and shook their heads sadly. But Thengel had seen the dark shadowy eyes of one of the male consorts – angry, hurting eyes – and the livid bruises across the beautiful, slender body as the young man had stood in the darkness of the newly dead king's room. And, Thengel had seen the vial of poison the trembling hands had shoved in a drawer.

But it had been done – one way or the other, Fengel was dead. And, for better or for worse, Thengel was ruler of a staggering, perishing Rohan.

Edoras – he dropped his eyes to look down at the infested streets of the capital – had become little more than a refugee camp as those living on the open plains fled to the heart of the kingdom for protection against Saruman's hordes. Once tidy streets were lined with tents and screaming children. Huge cauldrons of stew had been set up at the base of the Golden Hall in an attempt to feed the up-rooted masses.

A flash of unreasonable shame shot through the new king. This was the first sight the delegation from Gondor would see of the new Rohan – would they think he was a bad king? Would they scorn the poverty and desperateness they saw written on the faces of the refugees?

With a shaky breath, he looked back to the plains – and the plumes of dust rising from the dry ground as the party of horses moved closer towards Edoras. The delegation from Gondor.

He knew Turgon would not be there and that greatly saddened his heart. In the eighteen years he had spent living among the Gondorians, the Steward had become a father-figure, as well as becoming a true friend. Turgon would have come – Thengel reassured himself – but the situation was bleak in Gondor. The country could not be left leaderless at such a time as this.

Tilting his head back, he took a long breath before spinning and striding back into the Golden Hall. The delegation would arrive in a few moments – there was no use in pacing the balcony as he waited for them.

Thengel forced himself into a semblance of calm as he sat rigidly on the wooden throne. His guards – the few that were not helping with the refugees – stood in the wings, waiting for his command. At his right hand, he had set a creamy piece of paper bearing the scarlet Rohirrim seal – the treaty that would join Rohan and Gondor in an alliance against Saruman – the treaty that would hopefully save the lives of countless men, women, and children.

Trumpets blew and the wooden doors swung inwards with a rasping groan – and Echtelion, son of Turgon, swept in. His soft green eyes settled on the King of Rohan and a smile lit up his young face. He bent his head and his light brown hair caught the dull light. "My lord. I come bearing new from my father – and the power to carry out his will. Let Gondor and Rohan be joined in alliance."

* * *

Gandalf's staff rapped noisily against the stone steps of Rivendell's outer courtyard as he made his way into the flowing buildings. Trees swayed in the warm summer breezes and the bright sunlight washed out the pastel colored pillars.

"Mithrandir." Elrond swept from the archway with the bearing of a great king. One hand touched his breast in elvish greeting. "Welcome to Rivendell. Long have the days been since you have graced us with your presence. Times are darker now."

"But your welcome is as warm as always, my lord Elrond." Gandalf tipped his head and then turned to look over the gardens and waterfalls stretching through the valley. "It is fading," he noted and dismay tinged his tone. "The brilliance that has been preserved by elves for the generations – but now it slips away…"

"Our power is weakening and Saruman grows in strength – we will soon pass over the sea and the world will be left to men." Elrond turned and motioned for the wizard to fall into step beside him. "I never foresaw the darkness growing this fast. I fear that Middle-earth will not survive for long in the hands of men. Together, Saruman and Sauron raze Rohan to the ground. The Nazgúl ride from Mordor and terrorize the countryside daily…"

"You know the danger that lies ahead for this land but you sought to kill the last Heir of Isuldir?" Gandalf watched the expression of the dark-haired elf closely with his large gray eyes. One eyebrow rose slightly when Elrond attempted to make no response after several long moments. "Come now, my friend, it is not often one finds that a great elf-lord has been struck speechless."

"I looked into his future and I saw only death and suffering. Galadriel saw the same." Elrond's face was carefully impassive, his voice without any inflection. Directing his gaze straight ahead, the elf lord avoided Gandalf's probing. "I see you have been talking to Legolas, my friend."

"We spoke nigh on eight years ago, when that boy of his was only three. I imagine the lad is almost twelve by now." Gandalf cast a side-glance at the elf.

Elrond made no reply, his pale mouth narrowing into a thin line.

"Legolas would have been away from his people twelve years. Do you not think that is long enough?" Gandalf pulled them both to a halt on a wooden bridge and they stood watching a gushing stream flow beneath them. "Call him back, Elrond. Take him to Lothlorien and look into the boy's future once more. When I saw them, I sensed no excess of darkness in the boy's mind or in his future. Perhaps Legolas has indeed changed fate."

A bird flittered over the trees and Elrond followed the erratic movement with his shadowed eyes. "Yes… perhaps," he murmured distantly as if his mind had fled into a happier memory. "Perhaps if he can talk to Galadriel… perhaps he will come to his senses…"

Gandalf pursed his lips slightly. "You do not mean to tell me you still believe the boy should be done away with?"

Sadness flickered over Elrond's face but was then lost in the steeliness of resolve. "His blood – Isildur's blood – bears a deep curse that is centuries old. Legolas, with all of his good intentions and dreams, cannot break it. I truly do not believe that any man or elf could." His sigh was deep and heavy with too many years of experience. "Legolas should have let us do away with him after his birth. Now he is attached to the child. It will be much harder for him now."

Wind swept through Gandalf's wild mane and the wizard shook his head. "In your fear, Elrond, you have forgotten the hope. Give Legolas and the boy this once chance, my old friend. Look into their future with impartiality and see if you do not see the glimmer of light. For Legolas."

Elrond's gaze turned inwards and one hand traced the patterns carved into the wooden bridge. "Yes," he said after a time. "Perhaps I will give the future one more chance." A bitter smile twisted across his face. "For Legolas – I do not think he would ever forgive me if I did not."

Gandalf harrumphed his agreement. "You will send for him then? And you will go to Lothlorien?"

Water gurgled over the gray rocks and wind rustled through the trees in the following silence as both man and wizard waited for destiny to be decided. And then, Elrond's voice – low and steady – spoke into the quiet. "I will."

* * *

Elladan's first impression of Archet was the lack of life in the dull yellow rolling hills surrounding the town. The air was dry and thick and hot wind kicked up clouds of dust every few minutes.

Of course – being an elf – Elladan did not feel the festering heat. But he did take note that all green things had been burnt alive by the power of the deep yellow sun. And his horse huffed and sweated as they made their way along the windy paths.

A drought, his mind provided absently. Such things did not afflict Rivendell – the 'magical' power of the elves made sure of that – but Elladan supposed that such an even was fairly common among the mortal world. Part of him was amazed that so soon after the wetness of spring, a spell of such dryness could seize the land.

Archet rose up as a great brown parasite in a world of sickly green and even sicklier yellow. Its huge walls did little to impress Elladan and the elf quickly skirted around the fort, heading towards the location Gandalf had described for him as where he would find Legolas. It had been years since he had entered into a human town and he was not about to start now.

As the elf drew closer to what he supposed would be Legolas's home, he found that the landscape regained some of its healthy green. And when he found himself in the tiny clearing that held the house, the area was positively lush with an abundance of life. Tall grasses were fairly humming with vitality swayed as they in a breeze that somehow did not feel so hot and heavy. Bright flowers dotted the field and released their merry scents into the slightly warm air.

Elladan smiled.

Nature, it seemed, loved Legolas no matter where the elf went.

The wooden house sat snugly in the far end of the field, just outside the rich tree line. Smoke curled from the chimney and a dark-haired boy stood outside, tending to what appeared to be a small garden.

A breath caught in Elladan's throat and a pain seized upon his insides. So this was the boy that Legolas had given up everything for.

He was not a bad looking boy, Elladan admitted to himself. Dark brown hair was carefully braided back from a nut-brown face – though a few strands had escaped to stick in sweaty clumps to a slightly sloping forehead. Smooth, relatively hairless skin stretched over long, sleek muscles that rippled slightly as the boy worked a hoe through reddish-brown dirt. Clear, gray eyes – actually, they seemed more silver when the sunlight glinted off of them – were well set above high cheek bones and a firm mouth lay in a straight line of concentration.

When the boy heard the steady clop of hooves, he dropped the hoe to the ground. One grubby hand brushed ineffectually at his sweaty hair and the other hand reached for the cotton shirt he had draped over a stump. Shrugging it on, he took several steps towards Elladan and stood there, shading his eyes with one lean hand.

"_Mae govenann_," Elladan greeted smoothly he had drawn his horse up next to the boy. He hesitated, glancing towards the wooden house and then back at the boy. "Is Legolas here?"

A dirt smudge lay over the boy's cheek and continued down onto his neck. He licked his lips and planted his hands on deceptively small hips. "And what business would you have with him?" he asked in a clear voice that – even at his young age – rang with authority.

"I am an old friend – I have things I need to discuss." Elladan swung off of his horse and stood before the boy. He was only slightly surprised when he realized that the child was much shorter than he had first appeared.

_He does not look evil, _Elladan thought as he studied the flushed cheeks and sweaty forehead. He seemed to be just like another boy. Perhaps Mithrandir had been right about…

"You are an elf." The boy's silver eyes flashed dangerously. "Several years ago – one of your kind came and talked to him. He was upset for days. How do I know you will not do the same?"

Elladan's brow furrowed his confusion. Another elf had come here…? Oh, Elrohir and Gilraen's death. "I swear to you my intentions are good." He took a step in the direction of the door and pretended not to notice the way the boy countered his movements. "Is he here?"

"Estel?"

Both heads turned towards the query.

Legolas stood at the corner of the house, a bow in one hand. Blond hair was done in the warrior style he had worn for over a millennium. Bright blue eyes shone in his pale face and one dark eyebrow was cocked upwards. His clothes were slightly _mannish_, Elladan noted with a grimace. But, otherwise, Legolas was unchanged from the last time they had met over a decade before.

"My friend," Elladan started but he did not finish. His tongue seemed to have frozen within his mouth and his hands fell to his sides. He felt pinned beneath Legolas's gaze and all the unspoken questions those blue eyes held. For days – since Mithrandir had come to the elves with his plans – he had dreamed about seeing his old friend again – and now he found himself stricken with absolute silence.

Legolas had set down the bow and was moving rapidly across the ground – his eyes fixed on the dark haired half-elf. He brushed past Estel with a whispered word that made the boy return to the house and came to stand inches from Elladan. "Why have you come here?" he asked softly, eyes searching out the familiar features. "Has Elrond decided to take Estel away from me after all of this time?"

"No…I…" Elladan choked slightly. "Legolas…"

The blond elf's marble façade softened. "I am sorry I did not say goodbye," he murmured in elvish.

"That has been forgiven long ago." Elladan woodenly smiled as his shoulders shifted towards Legolas – though his hands stayed by his sides. "I am sorry for not coming sooner."

"You are forgiven." A resolution came into the blue eyes and Legolas's right foot slid forwards. "I have missed you, my friend." And then his arms came around Elladan's tense body and his head rested on the taller elf's shoulder.

A low sigh slid past Elladan's lips and he brought his arms up to embrace Legolas. "And I missed you. Father said no one was to come after you or I would have come much sooner." He squeezed the lean frame a little tighter before releasing Legolas and stepping backwards a few paces.

Legolas cast a glance over his shoulder in the direction of the house. "Then why have you come now? Your presence gladdens my heart but I am not so naïve as to think this a casual meeting between friends."

"My father asks you and the boy to pay a visit to Lothlorien so that the Lady and him may look into his future and see what might linger there."

"And if I refuse?"

"Legolas…"

"The last time I saw Elrond, he was explaining the necessity of killing Estel. What reassurances do I have that he will not attempt to do so again?" Legolas shook his head resolutely and gazed solidly at his friend. "I will take no chances."

"Mithrandir will be there," Elladan countered – a measure of desperateness seeping into his voice. "And I will be there as well. Father misses you – we all do. Please, Legolas. Give us – give him – a chance."

Legolas's gaze turned away from Elladan and his shoulders hunched inwards. "His name is Estel," he said just under his breath, his words faltering ever so slightly. "Did I tell you? He is thirteen years old and loves to ride his horse."

"Estel," Elladan repeated, making an effort to smile warmly. "You named him Hope."

"It is fitting." The luminous eyes turned to scour Elladan's face. "He will stay in the light. He will bring hope."

"Do not waste your battles on me, Legolas. You are my friend and I will not see you harmed in anyway. If losing the boy means you will be hurt – I will fight to keep him by your side."

"But you do not believe that he is the hope."

Elladan was suddenly aware of the quiet that had come over the field. The breeze had ceased to blow and the grasses held themselves in an eerie stillness. "There… there is a curse upon his blood, my friend. I do not know if anyone is strong enough to free him from that. But if it can be done," he continued with resolution, "I have no doubt that you will be the one to see it done."

"Your faith in me warms my spirit," Legolas turned to look at the house again and Elladan could only imagine what his eyes truly saw. "Estel and I will go to Lothlorien," he said at last – his words sounding almost as a funeral dirge. "I suppose you will accompany us?"

"If you wish it to be so, I will travel with you." Elladan declined to mention that his father had declared on no uncertain terms that he _was _to ride with Legolas and the child – Estel, he corrected himself – to Lothlorien.

Legolas nodded. "I do," he said in a way that made Elladan think that the wood-elf had realized Lord Elrond's orders.

"We will leave in the morning," Legolas continued. "Will you stay with us tonight? Estel has never met another elf besides me and I think he would be pleased to hear some of your tales. I am afraid mine have been told too many times." He laughed a little and stopped when Elladan did not join in.

"You have not told him, have you? Of his heritage? Of his destiny?"

Shadows filled Legolas's blue eyes and he wrenched himself away from Elladan. "No – I," his voice caught and he made a visible effort to draw himself straighter – a wall that would protect Estel from anything and anyone. "He should not be burdened by that now. I will tell him when the time is right."

Elladan studied him for a moment more before turning to walk toward the house. "I will tell him stories – though I doubt they will be as good as yours – and then we will leave in the morning." He chuckled. "He did not seem very happy when we first met. He said another elf had been here before me."

"Yes, Elrohir came and told me of Gilraen's death." Legolas's smile had a self-depreciating flavor to it. "I am afraid I was quite disconsolate for several days without ever really explaining to Estel why."

Elladan turned and saw the sorrow that still lingered in the blue depths of Legolas's eyes. "She died with a smile and whispering her husband's name. I believe she found her peace after death. And, I also know that she would bear you no fault for taking Estel as your own." Elladan stopped to gather his thoughts as he watched the cloud of sorrow that swept over his friend's face. "She trusted you and cared for you as a dear friend – she would know that you would do right by her son."

Legolas nodded even as the door open and Estel stood on the top step watching them with his wide, gray eyes. His face had been cleaned and still seemed to be slightly damp from the washing even as water droplets sparkled in his hair.

At the archer's motion, the boy came quickly down the steps and stood by Legolas's side – his eyes carefully gauging Elladan's face while his hands fidgeted deep within his pockets.

"This is an old friend of mine - Elladan," Legolas said, one hand resting comfortably on Estel's shoulder. "Tomorrow we will be journeying with him to Lothlorien."

Estel turned to him with a question written clearly in his eyes. "The home of the elf-queen? We are going to meet your people?" There was an undertone of excitement in his voice that Elladan could not help but smile at.

"Yes – though they are not exactly my people." Legolas smiled at the boy and his gaze was gentle. "Will you go and tend to our horses as well as Elladan's? He will be staying with us the night."

The boy nodded and turned to go. He hesitated and glanced back at Elladan. "It was good to meet you, sir," he said softly – then he turned and took the half-elf's horse to the stables. His gait was spry and he murmured in a gentle tone to the horse as he went, patting its nose and introducing himself to the unfamiliar beast.

Elladan watched him go and then turned to Legolas. "He seems like a good boy," he murmured.

Legolas's warm eyes were fixed on the boy's retreating back. "Yes, he is," and his voice was tight with worry. "I cannot lose him, Elladan. He has become a son to me. I will not let Elrond harm him in any way."

* * *

Dawn cracked over the countryside surrounding Archet. Red, gold, orange, and white streaked across the eastern sky and peppered across the dull blue of the fading night. Soft breezes swept from the south, bringing with it the smell of daisies as it cooled off the muggy landscape.

Legolas took a deep breath of the cool air and smiled at the resulting tingle in the back of his throat. A song rose within his heart and it was all he could do to keep the melody safely locked behind his lips. Mornings like this were common in these sweltering summer days but, to Legolas, they never lost their novelty.

The whitish-yellow of the rising sun highlighted the pastel colored landscape and gray rock formations – highlighted the sagging face of Estel as the boy half-heartedly fought to keep his gray eyes open.

Dark hair was falling from its usual braids and was hanging in mussed strands over the slack forehead and wide, yawning mouth. Rumpled clothes were twisted haphazardly over wearied limbs that were splayed in all manner of odd directions over the back of the horse. Every few moments, Estel's body would jerk slightly and his loose hands would tighten over the reigns before he would fall into tired limpness once again. Poor boy – he really was not used to rising before dawn had even brushed the sky.

Mirth tugged at the archer's lips and he urged his horse closer to the boy's. "Estel, you are missing the sunrise," he informed cheerfully.

Eyelashes, the color of unburnt coal, fluttered and gray eyes stared at him blearily before Estel leaned with over his horse's neck with a tragic groan. "I do not care. You told me I was missing the stars as we left the house."

"Well, you were." Legolas wondered for a moment if Estel was going to topple from his horse as the human fairly draped himself over the long neck of his horse. When the boy managed to maintain his balance, the elf continued with a grin. "It is quite beautiful. You will be sorry that you did not at least glance at it."

There was a flash of white teeth as Estel bit his lip then the boy dragged his head upwards with overly dramatized groan. His cheeks and forehead wrinkled inwards as he peered at the collage of colors painting the horizon. "Lovely," he mumbled as his head drooped once more.

Legolas eyed the boy and his horse for a long breath. After assuring himself that the horse would not let Estel fall and would keep following the other two horses, Legolas urged his own mount forwards.

Elladan rode only a few yards ahead. His dappled stallion plodded along, pausing occasionally to scrape at a particularly green parcel of grass. The dark elf's hands were resting on his thighs as he trusted his horse to know the way over the hills and Legolas bit back a grin at the sight.

Running a pale hand through his blond hair, Legolas could feel the beginning waves of heat rising to caress his skin and he absently checked the water bag hanging next to his leg. _Estel will need to drink lots of water,_ he reminded himself, _and he will need to put on that disgusting salve that humans rub over themselves to keep the sun from burning their delicate skin._

The upwards path they had been following leveled out at the crest of the hill and Legolas twisted on the horse to look back over the valley that had been his home for these thirteen years.

Archet's brown walls glistened in the growing warmth and the white-blue river cut a swath nearby. Legolas's keen elf eyes could make out Bartmelou's inn and the schoolyard. Lifting his gaze farther, he could see the tattered brown of his own home and the dusty trail that led into the town. The townspeople would be rising now. Bartmelou would be finding the hasty note Legolas had left on his doorstep and Idella would be starting the breakfast for the early customers.

Legolas's eyes went gray for a short moment. Presentiment started as an itch in the back of his mind and he wearily scrubbed at his face. Never before the first time he had glimpsed Estel with his mind's eye did Legolas have such strong premonitions. And, now, since the birth of this child – the striking visions were growing more varied, more graphic – the feelings were becoming more concentrated. Legolas knew now to _never _ignore any strong sense of foreboding.

Estel's horse lumbered past him with a snort. The boy's eyes were lightly closed and his mouth hung open as he wandered in the realms of sleep. The sight caused a swell of tenderness to rise within Legolas's breath and fill his eyes. Yes, this mortal child had changed his life in so many ways. And Legolas would not trade the boy for anything in all of Middle-earth.

With a sigh, Legolas turned his horse and fell into pace beside his young charge. He stared blindly into the now-fading sunrise as he tried to shake the foreboding that had come over him and shadowed all of his thoughts. It was no good. Legolas knew that wherever path their destiny would take, Estel would never return to the country town of Archet.

**to be continued.**


	12. One True Belief

**Disclaimer: **I own none of the recognizable characters in this story—they all belong to JRR Tolkien and New Line.

**Wherever the Surge May Sweep**

**By Jame K. **

_**Chapter Eleven**__**: One True Belief**_

_Better trust all and be deceived,  
And weep that trust, and that deceiving,  
Than doubt one heart that, if believed,  
Had blessed one's life with true believing.  
- Frances Anne Kemble_

"So they have decided to take the boy to Lothlorien…" Saruman fingered the small black bumps on his staff. "Perfect." He turned to face the orc standing in the middle of the circular room.

"Take two hundred of your best and make for the Golden Wood. Bring me the boy or I will slaughter you all."

The orc grunted as saliva dripped down his twisted jaw. "As my lord wishes," he growled, yellow eyes narrowing into slits. "The elves do not stand a chance against our superior might."

Saruman huffed impatiently through closed lips. "Save your boastings. Just bring me the boy and kill as many elves as you can while you are at it. Now," he said with a wave of one bony hand, "be gone from my sight."

When the orc had banged out of the room, Saruman smiled as he sat down upon his cruelly shaped throne. "Oh, yes. Victory is within my grasp now – and the elves will only realize it when it is too late. Only one thing is left to be done."

The wizard closed his eyes and began to weave a dark net of horrifying images – with no light or hint of redemption – over the boy's future just as he had done thirteen years before. Now, the fool elves looking into the boy's future would only see what Saruman wanted them to see. They would see the evil – and they would abandon their most valuable ally.

They would abandon hope.

* * *

The very instant Legolas stepped into the Golden Wood four months after leaving Archet, an inexplicable feeling of comfort and belonging tingled through his nerves and a warm pit blossomed in his stomach and spread through out his chest as the clean air touched his lungs.

Estel, Elladan, his duty, and whatever games the fates were playing were all put on an indefinite hold as the familiar woodsy comfort was flushed over his cheeks and limbs. He felt the urge to sing, dance – twirl in a circle with his arms held high above his head – as the trees swayed above him in a ghostly, comforting dance.

These trees were very old – Legolas supposed – as least as old that the elves that inhabited their branches. They were not the young saplings – barely setting root in the dark red dirt of Middle-earth – that Legolas had communed with during his long stay at Archet. These trees _knew_ elves – they knew how to speak to the hearts of the Eldar. And what was more, these trees _knew _Legolas.

And as Legolas drew closer to the heart of Lothlorien, the trees were even friendlier with him. They reached out to him with their leafy branches and whispered to him of their goodwill. _Welcome to our woods, young king, _they murmured, _long have you been away and we are grateful to welcome you back._

Legolas's eyes were continually drifting upwards to the thick boughs and longing thudded through his veins. Finally, he turned his gaze over his shoulder – Estel was fine – and sprung with the grace of a great cat directly into the tree overhead.

In his imagination – the cool, smooth wood opened up to welcome him – the leaves fawned his passing as he darted above his two traveling companions. Legolas knew he was surrounded by the wisdom of the ages.

_Legolas!_

The elf grinned down to where Estel sat on his horse – his head craned backwards. _Peace, young one. I am above you. _

It may have been hours later – the elf's sense of the passage of time was warped by the joy of the trees – a shuffling alerted his attention to something beyond the greenery. The balls of his feet perched delicately on a branch no thicker than his own wrist. His forearms rested over his knees so that his hands dangled free and his head cocked to one side.

And then, wide sea-blue eyes appeared from a cluster of leaves. A blond head peeped from around the thick trunk and a pristine eyebrow shot up almost to the sloping hairline. "Welcome to the woods of Lothlorien, Legolas Thrandullion."

"_Mae govenann_, Glorfindel," the younger elf greeted mildly – his own blue eyes flickering with amusement. Legolas tipped his head backwards. His weight shifted and his feet slipped from the smooth branch. Air rushed passed his ears and he thought he heard Estel's startled yelp from somewhere far below. Then the world was upside down for several moments as he flipped through the air.

Legolas was inanely pleased that Glorfindel landed on the ground at the exact moment as him. His knees straightened and Legolas flipped his blond hair over one shoulder. "It is has been along time," he noted with an air of uselessness – the empty air that hung between them had been just too conspicuous – even as he brought his arm to chest in the elvish greeting.

"Indeed." Glorfindel's placid face seemed to quirk slightly then he nodded. "The Lady Galadriel sends us as escort to the Son of Thranduil and his fellow travelers. Caras Galadhon is only a few hours from this point."

The sleek horse that Legolas had ridden arrived at the archer's side – nuzzling his side like a recalcitrant puppy.

"I did not know," started Legolas even as his hand smoothed down his horse's muzzle, "that the Lord Glorfindel resided in Lothlorien – much less that he received orders from the Lady herself."

"I am here with Lord Elrond and I offered to come find my dear friend. Also, I wished to see your young charge for myself." He proceeded to turn his eyes to the wide-eyed visage of Estel and studiously perused the child even as Legolas noticeably tensed. "He is smaller than I expected," he said but it was not unkind.

Legolas turned to observe Estel as well and a fond smile twitched over his face at the sight. By the Valar – if the boy managed to turn any redder, he might be counted as one of those overly ripe tomatoes that Bartmelou was so fond of. "Do not tease him. He is a fine boy." And he sent a warm surge of comfort over their bond.

_His words are not meant to harm – he merely wishes to irk me._

Estel's eyes flashed to him gratefully and the boy nodded just a little with a half smile flagging at the corners of his mouth.

For a moment more, Legolas kept his eyes on the boy – seeing the youthful innocence – seeing the fascination with the elves and the tress – seeing no hint of the darkness that everyone else seemed to so clearly find.

And when he directed his gaze forwards again, Glorfindel was watching him with warm comprehension. "Come," the elf said, "the Lady awaits your presence."

The first muted hues of sunset were coloring the western sky when the trees seemed to part – allowing the weary travelers their first clear view of Caras Galadhon. Deep green trees rose up into the pale golden horizon – a peaceful island in the midst of the turmoil of Middle-earth.

Legolas had drawn his horse up at the sight of elven city and sat motionless while Elladan and Estel rode past him. He scarcely heard the boy's amazed voice chattering away. His gaze was black and disconcerted as if a strange cloud had overshadowed him suddenly and completely.

"Legolas? Is something wrong?"

With a look of vacant anguish covering his elegant features, Legolas turned to face the Balrog Slayer. "It is fading," he cried, his voice wracked with horrified denial. "Ai, Valar! So long has it been since I have gazed on these blessed trees – and now I find them only remnants, shadows of light, in a gathering dusk."

"Shadows are everywhere now. The power of the elven rings weakens with the day and orcs abound on the borders of Lothlorien and Rivendell. Soon all of the elves will flee and these beautiful elven kingdoms will follow the same fate as your Greenwood. This world will fall to darkness." Regret was heavy upon Glorfindel's brow as his hands twisted slightly. "And all will be lost to darkness."

"No," Legolas murmured after a moment of silence. His gaze left Glorfindel and settled on the dark head of Estel – watching as the evening sunlight shone off the dark strands like burnish amber. "Hope is not lost. Middle-earth will be redeemed and light will flourish once more."

"You truly believe him in, princeling. I hope your faith holds."

"It will." Legolas hesitated, a smile flickering across his face and then fading into melancholy. "I am no longer a princeling, my friend, though to hear you call me that old name does give me some comfort."

The young king felt the slight heat of Glorfindel's gaze and he held himself still under the scrutiny. The sun flickered as it faded into the trees and Legolas closed his eyes against the momentary brightness.

"We should ride on, my king." Glorfindel's voice was a soft melody on the wind. "The Lady of Our Woods much desires to speak with you."

"And I desire the same." Legolas's long legs gently squeezed the sides of his horse. "Tell me, has Mithrandir come?" He glanced at Glorfindel then continued without an answer. "I fear for Estel – Elladan tells me that Elrond and the Lady will listen with an open mind but – I trust only Mithrandir."

"Mithrandir will come within the week."

"That will not be soon enough." Hazy evening light reflected dully off of Legolas's cheekbones and a strange desperateness seemed to seize him – a premonition that Legolas could not – would not – ignore. "You must promise me, my old friend," and his voice wheezed slightly at the force of the words, "if Mithrandir does not come – you will see Estel to him safely. He cannot be allowed to be – done away with."

"Legolas…"

Indiscernible fear washed the color from the blue eyes. "Will you give me this promise?"

Glorfindel met the wood elf's gaze squarely. "I know naught what drives you to seek this boon of me – but I swear I that I will see it done. You need not fear for the boy while I am here."

"It is well then." The panic drained from Legolas's face and he wiped one hand over his brow. He smiled. Glorfindel was right – Legolas no longer needed to fear. His spirit was at peace. He had to believe that no matter what happened in Lothlorien – what dire predictions Galadriel would divulge – everything would be all right.

He lifted his eyes and saw the cool, white light that heralded the inner sanctuary of Caras Galadhon shining through the silver trees – the curved staircases carved from the finest wood as they circled up the trunks.

The sheer, peaceful beauty of Caras Galadhon had never ceased to capture Legolas's eyes – and fill his heart with song. Even now – as he stood in the midst of dark turbulence – an inexplicable peace settled over his mind, dulling his worries into mute annoyances. On this day – in this moment – he would not linger on the troubles – how the white light seemed just a little dimmer – but on the wonderment of seeing this forest after so many years of absence.

His horse was taken by a tall elf with gray eyes as Legolas reveled in the soft grass that whispered against his feet. Tight lines had engraved themselves on his flawless skin and his eyes were the color of a turbulent sea, for – bathed in the radiance of the stars – Galadriel, Lady of the Woods, was descending the silver steps with Lord Elrond and Lord Celeborn by her side.

Warm flesh pressed against his side and Legolas put a firm arm around the small shoulders. His consciousness reached towards the child with thoughts of safety and comfort – of warm rivers and soft starlight.

_Be at peace, my child._

Then Legolas titled his chin back and kept his gaze on the two ring-bearers. Colors seemed to fade under the powerful light the trio exuded and Legolas felt oddly comforted by the warmth of the light. The bow that he offered the elven ring-bearers, however, was stiff and he kept his arm secure around Estel.

"Welcome to the Golden Wood, Legolas Thranduillion." Galadriel's smile was a pink sliver on the white luminance of her face. "Your presence was dearly missed amongst the trees these years."

"My duties led me elsewhere, my lady." Legolas's voice was tight and his eyes canvassed the Lady's face for any sign of duplicity – any sign that this meeting might bode badly for Estel.

"Indeed." Galadriel's powerful blue eyes turned to the gray-eyed boy. She inspected him for a moment and Estel squirmed closer to Legolas's side. "I – we – have need," the elf said then, "to speak to you in great depth, young Thranduillion."

"I know." Legolas's eyes darted to the Elrond's solemn visage. "I know." He closed his mouth then and lowered his eyes to the boy. "Estel, you must go with Elladan and Glorfindel. They will watch out for you until I may return to your side. Do you understand?"

Starlight was in the boy's eyes as he leaned his face into Legolas's side. "Please… may I go with you?"

"No. Obey me now, Estel." Legolas smiled. "I will come for you soon." He gave the boy a gentle shove in Glorfindel's direction and watched as the Balrog Slayer took the child's hand and led him away into the woods. His lungs contracted painfully as he turned back around to the Lady. "I will come."

She nodded. "Walk with us, then."

Sweet-smelling breezes blew through the ferns and the grass seemed almost bluish under Galadriel's light. Elrond moved just before Legolas, his dark hair bound back by silver lattice. Galadriel walked at one side and Celeborn at the other. White steps appeared and they went down.

"You know of my mirror, Thranduillion?"

"Rumors and conjecture only, my lady, never have my eyes seen it." Legolas's dark blue eyes turned to the pedestal in the small glade they had entered into. A tendril of surprise wisped across his face and then was gone. "Oh."

"The past and the present, I see. And the future. Your future – the child's future – the future of the world." Galadriel left the other elves and stepped to the clear fountain that spouted just behind the mystical mirror. "I have seen the future, Thranduillion. And now I ask that you look and see for yourself what is to come."

"Cannot the future be changed?" Legolas's voice was harsh. "Are all futures set in such firm stone?"

"I have examined," Galadriel's eyes stayed fixed on his as her rich voice spoke quietly in his mind, "all paths, all hopes. Darkness surges around the boy. When he falls he will take you down with him. You will die by his hand." The pitcher was tipped and clear water poured from the silver spout, splashing into the smooth surface. Water droplets landed on the gray stone.

Legolas was shaking his head, his feet sliding along the damp grass as he backed away. "I cannot believe that." His eyes darted furtively towards the mirror. "I will _not_ believe that. Estel is light and hope."

Galadriel stepped to stand next to the Celeborn as her voice was once again murmuring in Legolas's mind. "Then look and see the future for yourself, young one. Then we will call the precious boy – and we will look into his mind to see what lies in the depths of his soul."

"He is pure," Legolas insisted. He closed his eyes, remembering the one time his own mind had been searched – the horrific pain, humiliation, and terrifying fear as all of his secrets were exposed to the prying eyes of another. "There is no need…"

"You will allow us to do this." And there was no room for any argument in Celeborn's steely voice.

Legolas nodded, his eyes beset by a deep pain. He had no choice.

Galadriel' voice softened then. "Go to the mirror – and see what it will show you of the future."

An odd weakness had crept up Legolas's knees – every step to the slim pedestal was wobbly. When he got to the mirror, his body sagged against the cool stones – his hands grasping the rough lip.

Ripples fluttered across the water – despite the absence of wind. Legolas saw his blond hair and wide, scared eyes.

_The present_, he thought ruefully.

Then, the water darkened into a hundred black swirls that grew until the mirror was as black as the starless sky.

He saw a chubby baby face swim into view and he could not help the smile that crept over his face – Estel. The baby cooed and waved one small fist through the air before disappearing from Legolas's view. Then Estel as he was now appeared on the black backdrop of the mirror – young and strong as practiced archery – and Legolas smiled again. Happiness exuded from both of the images and the emotion was a balm to Legolas's weathered soul. They were all wrong. He just knew it…

The images changed then. The blackness grew thicker to the point of complete oppressiveness just as Estel's face came again. He was older – Legolas guessed him to be in his early twenties – and his face was consumed by anger. His gray eyes were flashing dangerously and Legolas thought of Arathorn. The young man's shoulders were heaving with unrestrained, vexed passion and in one hand he held what Legolas recognized to be the One Ring.

"No…"

And then Estel was standing with a long sword clenched in dirt-smeared fists. Blood was streaked across his face and his eyes were wild. Behind him was a dead, barren field that Legolas knew could only be Mordor. The One Ring was hanging obscenely about his neck.

"No… please," Legolas whimpered.

Aragorn's face faded only to be replaced by Legolas's own visage – marred by dirt and blood. Legolas saw himself lying on hard stone, his hands bound tightly and blood pooling beneath his body. The healer inside Legolas noted the shallow respirations and clammy skin – shock had seized the normally strong elven body.

"Estel…" the mirror Legolas whispered, his bound hands rising to beseech someone out of Legolas's sight. "Please… do not do this. Please…" No response came and Legolas watched as the light faded from his own blue eyes and his own chest fell ghastly still. Then Estel's face was there before Legolas again – his sword raised high over his head and a wicked light was gleaming in his gray eyes.

And before Legolas's horrified eyes, Middle-earth slipped into darkness and ruin. Elves fled across the sea and children were forced to slave in the bitter cold and wretched heat. Above it all, Estel watched with an amused smirk.

The visions faded and Legolas could not find the will in him to breathe. Pain enveloped his heart and soul. Could he have been so blinded – so deceived? Could his wonderful child be capable of such debauchery and complete wickedness? And Legolas could not find it in himself to take a breath – though his lungs contracted painfully deep within him. Had it all been for naught?

Coherency had left him and he was only vaguely aware of tumbling backwards onto the soft dirt. Stars blinked above him and Legolas wondered dully how long he had been in the grips of the vision. But that did not matter, he decided, all was fading into sweet blackness.

Elrond's face flickered into his fading vision.

_Move, Elrond, you are blocking the pretty stars._

* * *

The golden trees glimmered about the boy's wondering eyes, stretching above his eyes. Legolas, he knew, would not approve of his lonely sojourn into the depths of the Caras Galadhon. However, a phantasmal song murmured to Estel – a thread of melody pulling him through the trees.

He placed his hand on the bark of a tree, eyes glinting with the starry light as the yellow hued sunset faded into the deep blue of night. The strange tug increased, changing, growing, deepening. He turned his head, dark hair brushing the wood – expression lost with emotions beyond his capacity to fully comprehend.

The feeling of destiny was overpowering – the feeling of carefully woven intentions and burdens and hidden dreams laid bare in white sunlight. He lifted his eyes, wondering, and saw her.

She stood there, feet bare, sark hair long and free – face like the silvery star that Legolas spoke of as Polaris on the clear, wide nights. And Estel felt as if he had faded from reality into the fantastical world of Legolas's stories – where magic and love were beautiful and common.

"Luthien!" he called out, hands wrapped about the tree and mind lost as he realized that this lovely creature was the source of the starry melody. "Luthien!"

The beatific vision turned, white hands fluttering at her waist. Large deep eyes touched Estel to his soul, folding his emotions and driving him into a frozen void. "Why do you call me by that name of lore?" she asked, voice like the deep river during late summer. "For I am not her."

"Legolas," he said, "my mentor, has told me that Luthien was the most beautiful elf in the tales of old and you are the most beautiful elf I have ever seen – so you must be her." He clung to the tree, afraid of letting go and losing the ground of reality in this maelstrom of the imagined.

She laughed and moved toward him, dress sweeping over the ground and steps silent. "Legolas?" she asked, laying a hand atop his head – for Estel discovered, with some chagrin, that the top of his head just reached her shoulder. "You are the child whom Legolas has raised?"

"Yes – I am the child of Legolas." He smiled as her hand dipped down to brush over his temple. His grip on the tree loosened as her hand became his anchor. "I am Estel."

"Estel," she murmured. "The name speaks of Hope." She closed her eyes and, to Estel, she seemed to wander from him for a moment – though she did not move. "And he named you right." She looked at him differently now, eyes wide and knowing – saddened somehow. "You are hope – though it is long in coming and the path drifts into the dark as it weaves toward the stars. But, hope lies within you."

Estel gazed adoringly. "I do not know what you mean – but that matters not, my Luthien, if you will only keep speaking."

Her laugh made him blush. "For one so young, the tongue in your head is quite flattering. But, I am not Luthien – I am Arwen Evenstar, daughter of Elrond Halfelven. I reside in Lothlorien to train in the ways of my grandmother, Galadriel."

"Oh – Legolas went to see her now. He told me to stay at the campsite." Estel looked behind him, realizing for the first time how deep he had wandered into the woods. "He will be angry," he murmured.

Arwen touched his head. "Do not fear – Legolas will be long at Lady Galadriel's side and he will not mind you lingering here with me awhile. Legolas is a dear friend and he will not be angry if I explain."

Estel looked at her, once again awed by the glowing whiteness of her skin and the startling blue of her eyes. "You are very beautiful."

She smiled and her mind seemed to wander again. "And you will be very handsome," she said, "when you have grown. One day," she whispered, voice deepening, "you will ride into Rivendell and I will meet you there." She looked at him fully. "We will be joined as one; I have foreseen it."

Estel blinked, not understanding but eager to please. "I would not mind it," he said honestly and felt a flush creep across his face, extending down toward his chest as his young mind interpreted the statement.

Arwen smiled again and opened her mouth – but Estel's attention faded, emotions and thoughts turning inward, a strange tug on the bond.

"Legolas," he murmured, hand touching his forehead. "Legolas." The bond seemed to spasm within him, pulsing wild shades as pain and confusion tumbled through to jar around in his mind. "Legolas," he gasped again. "They are hurting him."

And he fled.

* * *

The world was so still – so peaceful. It did not matter that Estel was evil. And Legolas mentally shook his head. No! He would never believe Estel to be evil – no matter what the future would bring their way.

Everything sounded so dim and faraway but, nonetheless, Legolas heard the loud shout that rose over the excited babble of Elrond's voice. Then the elf-lord was gone and Legolas smiled at the stars. Gray eyes were looking down at him – huge and worried in a young, innocent face.

"Legolas! Please!" Small hands were grabbing his shoulders – Legolas melded like soft wax underneath their pressure and his head lolled backwards as a broken doll's would.

_Pretty stars._

Then hands were drawing him away from the boy and laying him flat on the ground. His head was tilted backwards so that his chin pointed up at the sky. Dry fingers pinched his nose shut. A warm, firm mouth covered his own lax mouth and stale, warm air was forced into starving lungs.

"Breathe, Legolas!" Elrond's voice shouted harshly.

Breathe? Now, why in all of Arda would he want to do that?

Yet, Estel's voice insisted as more air was forcefully blown into his lungs. "Breathe."

A hand thumped into his chest and Legolas gasped reflexively. Sweet, cool air flooded into his mouth and down into his lungs. Coughs wracked through him and he curled up onto his side, waiting for the hacks to pass.

"Estel?" he murmured to the empty air in front of him – had the boy really been there with him, urging him to just breathe? Or had that been a hallucination of an oxygen deprived mind?

"Yes, Legolas." The boy appeared, his hands touching the elf's cheeks, nose, and hair. "What is wrong? I could not feel you in my mind and you were lying so still and you were not breathing..." His eyes turned hard as he looked at the three elves standing above them. "What did you do to him?"

"He will be well in a moment."

Legolas rolled over roughly and stared up at her. "What happened?"

"A shock occurred to your psyche – possibly due to the intensity of visions you experienced." Elrond's face was grave. "Your body shut down momentarily. No lasting harm was done."

Even as he felt strength flow back into his limbs, Legolas nodded. His head cleared and the vitality of the moment came back to him. "What will happen now?" He stood to his feet and stepped in front of Estel – shielding the child with his own body. "I have seen the future and I hold to my beliefs."

"We will look into his mind." Galadriel motioned to Estel. "And we will see what needs to be done."

A heavy breath wracked Legolas and he nodded in resignation, even as his hands shook sporadically. "Estel," he said, turning to the boy. "Come here." The blond elf sat back down on the dirt and drew the thirteen-year-old into his arms – to comfort and to restrain. "They need to see into your mind," he murmured to the boy's ear as the boy's small back rested against his chest.

"Why?"

"They have questions that they want answers to." Legolas smiled tremulously and gently placed his arms around the boy's biceps and chest, holding the boy flush against his body.

Estel resisted for a moment and then surrendered. "Do you want me to do this?" he asked quietly, his head drooped against the side of Legolas's neck. "I will do it if you tell me to."

Legolas closed his eyes tightly and squeezed the boy. "Yes, Estel," and his voice was as strained as a taut, fraying rope. "Yes, Estel. This is what I want you to do for me." And Legolas was surprised that his voice stayed steady throughout his words.

The boy nodded in understanding, his eyes canvassing Legolas's slightly pained face. "All right. I trust you." And he relaxed in Legolas's arms, his smaller fingers intertwining with Legolas's as his eyes slipped closed.

"It will hurt – but I will be with you. If you are calm and relaxed, it will not… hurt so much." Legolas swallowed his sob with a thick click and did his best to ignore the powerful elves standing just above them, waiting to begin.

Estel just nodded and burrowed deeper into Legolas's chest.

Legolas held the boy tightly against his chest – his forehead resting on the back of Estel's head. "Just breathe," he whispered as he felt Galadriel and Elrond begin to focus their tremendous telepathic gifts on the boy. "Relax."

He was still for just a moment – then a gasp was torn from Estel's lips and he writhed against Legolas, pushing his head back on Legolas's chest as his feet kicked at the dirt. Legolas was able to feel the echo of the boy's pain through the bond.

It seemed to go on for hours – Legolas clutching the writhing boy against him, trying to comfort; and the elves scouring the young mind, tearing through shields, exposing secrets, seeking the very core of the growing soul.

When Estel let out a wrenching scream and fell horribly still, Legolas jerked as if he had been physically struck by an unconquerable blow. "Stop it!" he shouted, curling his lithe body around his charge's in a desperate attempt to protect the boy. "You are killing him. Stop it!" Tears squeezed from his eyes. "Please…" But, the pain still continued to echo through both of their bodies.

With a last painful jerk, the mental probes withdrew and Legolas felt the pain in the bond cease. He slowly uncurled himself and drew the limp figure into his embrace, feeling the clammy forehead and listening to the slow, steady breathing.

"It is no use, Legolas."

The blond elf looked up at Elrond's voice. "What do you mean?" he asked and his tone raw with pain.

"He is tainted – darkness lingers in his soul just waiting to be unleashed."

"No." Legolas's eyes darted around the clearing as if seeking away of escape and he moved Estel's head so that it rested beneath his chin. "He is hope… he is light…" A sob broke off his words.

"It will be completely painless," Elrond continued solemnly. "He will just go to sleep upon his bed and when morning comes – he will not open his eyes. It will be much better, Legolas, than allowing him to corrupt internally. At least now he will be taken into Mandos's care – instead of being forced to go the way of the evil ones. He will be turned to darkness if he continues to breathe on this earth. You do not think that all three of us could be wrong twice?"

Legolas found he had no strength to answer – no strength to argue. "Please," he murmured. "At least, give me this night with him. So I may say goodbye to him – hold him once more. I must…" his voice trailed off into the night.

"One night," Galadriel said, her gaze soft but unyielding. "And that is all."

His legs felt like water but Legolas stood, Estel dangling from his arms. "Thank you." Slowly, he turned from the glade and walked heavily up the stairs towards where he knew he and Estel could rest in peace.

Soft breaths blew across his neck and he looked down at Estel's lax, sleeping face – the mussed dark hair and slightly crooked nose.

"I will not let you die," Legolas whispered fiercely into the boy's round ear when he was far from the glade and the hearing of the three powerful elves. "I do not think they were wrong – but I do think that they can – and do – make mistakes. I will save you. All will be well, Estel. I promise."

* * *

And Saruman saw Galadriel's resolution – he saw the raw, weeping pain that suddenly overwhelmed the king of Greenwood. And when Galadriel granted Legolas one more night with the boy – he smiled. As his orcs began their final approach to the Golden Wood – he laughed.

His laughter bounced off the walls and echoed loudly inside of his head, almost deafening him. Tears streamed down his face and his eyes were wild with the insane mirth that overflowed his body and seemed to fill the dark room with an eerie glow. But he could not stop – his exhilaration pulsed through him and filled his veins to the bursting point.

At last the elves had been undone… _and _the beginning of this final destruction had been by their own hand. With their own hands, they had succeeded in casting the boy away from them forever. And in doing so they were dooming Middle-earth and (dare Saruman believe that his power could one day reach that far?) the Undying Lands to utter annihilation.

It was just too wonderful to be believed – too magnificent. Saruman would have not believed that it had come together so perfectly save for the proof that was flashing in the palanitir before his eyes.

Soon, Isildur's heir – or _Estel_ as that meddling elf called him – would belong to him – to him and the darkness.

Everything was turning out so perfectly.

**to be continued.**


	13. Desolate Shores

**Disclaimer: **I own none of the recognizable characters in this story—they all belong to JRR Tolkien and New Line.

**Wherever the Surge May Sweep**

**By Jame K. **

_**Chapter Twelve: Desolate Shores**_

_In the bitter waves of woe,  
Beaten and tossed about  
By the sullen winds which blow  
From the desolate shores of doubt.  
- Washington Gladden_

Orcs had not made a concentrated attack on the realm of Lothlorien since the initial rampage following the collapse of Greenwood. Darkness spread and thickened through out Middle-earth, devouring towns and children. But despite the long shadows that such blackness cast over the forest, Lothlorien remained an island haven in the mist of the dark sea – in spite of the occasional orc raid.

It was these irregular raids that called for the large patrols that circled the border of the peaceful forest like clockwork. Tall, proud elven warriors who were not afraid to perish for the sake of their homeland battled the orcs and kept the forest safe from all manner of intruders.

Therefore, the contingent of twenty warriors that were currently moving on the east border did not think it out of the ordinary when a band of orcs came over the far hill and rushed towards them with their battle axes and crude swords raised high above their ugly heads. They readied their own weapons and sent a single messenger to alert the other patrols of the trouble.

By the time they realized that the band of orcs was an army – it was just too late and there was nothing they could do.

* * *

Legolas had bathed Estel in a starlit pond. When Glorfindel had asked in a sotto voice that barely rose about the rustling of the tress why he was doing such a thing, the blond elf had shaken his head and turned his face away. He could not speak – there were not the words in his heart to explain his actions.

He had scrubbed clean the boy's skin – scrubbed layer after layer of travel dirt away until the skin was pink and glowing and _alive_. He had rubbed soap into the boy's hair and then washed it out and brushed the dark strands until they shone dully in the starlight. And he did not allow himself to think.

Estel groggily awoke as Legolas carried him back to the talan the elves of Lothlorien had provided for them. He blinked sleepily for several moments and then smiled at the elf – a weak twitch of lethargic face muscles. He did not say a word as Legolas dressed him in soft, gray nightclothes nor when the elf laid him gently in the nest of blankets that served as a sort of bed. Legolas looked into the boy's eyes and knew that Estel felt – saw – the agony lingering in Legolas's heart. The boy did not know the cause of Legolas pain – there was no way that he could have – but he allowed Legolas to tend to him like a child instead of the boy of thirteen years that he was. And after a few moments, he drifted off to sleep again.

A chill was lingering in the still air so Legolas took special care to tuck the white blanket in around the boy's limp, warm body. He ran a rough towel over Estel's hair and squeezed the last moisture from the thick waves – humans caught colds so easily and Estel hated to be sick.

Then he sat with his back ramrod straight and hands tightly clenched in his lap. He did not move – did not look at anyone save the sleeping boy lying before him. His chest seemed to barely rise and fall.

When Glorfindel laid a hand on his shoulder, Legolas knew that the older elf found his own smooth skin to be very cold.

Legolas had not acknowledged the elf lord's startled concern and a sort of pity grew in his heart as the elf ran off in search of another blanket. Did not Glorfindel know the truth? The chill that consumed him came from _within_ – there was no outward warmth that would cure this malady. And then, Legolas wondered just briefly, how cold he would be if Estel actually… actually _died._

So Legolas did not allow himself to sleep. He watched the small chest expand and deflate with each breath and then modulated his own breathing to match. He traced each line – each wrinkle – each tiny imperfection and perfection of the boy's face. He had to memorize it. If the worst should happen, Legolas could _not _allow himself to forget the face that had come to mean so much to him.

Once – when the moon was at its zenith and the wood was quiet – Legolas dared to touch the still face, dared to run a finger over the rounded ears. And then he dared to allow a few tears to burst from his eyes and run to trickle off of his jaw line. But that was all of his emotions he permitted to escape. The morning would require strength beyond what Legolas had ever been required to give.

But – he – could – not – would – not – fail.

If failure did occur and if the next time the moon found him Legolas was alone – well, there was no emotion in the world that would aptly express what he would be feeling in the empty desolateness of the night.

When the moon began to descend – but before the Eastern sky began to turn a dusky blue – Legolas moved for the first time in hours. He stood and went to where his horse was tied. There was an odd automaton quality to his movements and his blue eyes were still and glassy – the calm before the hurricane. Any light that had been in his eyes the day before had faded to join the glowing of the sun.

Dew had begun to settle on the long grasses and Legolas spared a glance to their jeweled sparkles as he strapped his weapons onto his back and clutched his bow tightly in his pale-knuckled hand – they were stars fallen to earth but still glowing of heaven's majesty.

The knees of his leggings had been soaked when he kneeled in the grass at Estel's side but it did not matter. All that mattered was the spark of life in the boy's storm gray eyes when Legolas shook him into wakefulness.

"We must leave," Legolas said and he was surprised how much his voice rasped over the simple words.

Estel looked up at the dark sky then at the stillness of the wood around him. When he turned back to Legolas, his gaze had been full of trust. "All right." He stood and shivered mildly in the chill pre-dawn air.

Legolas saw the tiny movement and draped a thick wool cloak about the thin shoulders. "We will take my horse," he murmured and pressed a knife into Estel's hand. "We must be quiet. Keep close."

When they were both settled on the horse, Estel leaned back against Legolas's chest and the elf wrapped one hand around the boy's wrist. As they left, Legolas looked behind and saw the knowing eyes of Glorfindel watching him.

For a moment, Legolas panicked and his breath caught. He wildly tightened his grip on Estel and stared back with absolute horror.

Then the elf lord smiled with a tinge of sadness around his eyes and wrinkles creasing across his normally smooth, white forehead. He nodded to the younger elf and then raised his hand in a mute farewell – a silent acknowledgment of Legolas's duty. Without ever making a single sound, Glorfindel turned and disappeared into the lightening shadows of the Golden Woods.

Lothlorien was so quiet and Legolas found that lack of sound disturbed him more than he thought it would. His eyes darted into the boughs of each tree and he held Estel tightly at every discreet rustle nature made. Icy water had settled deep in the pit of his intestines and seemed to slosh up against the soft throb of his heart with every step the horse took.

Fear – Legolas was afraid because he had never gone up against two powerful ring-bearers before. Fear – Legolas was afraid because if this desperate escape attempt failed, Estel – hope – would be lost into the abyss of death.

And they almost made it.

They left Caras Galadhon behind as the dawn was beginning to glow. They were halfway up the footpath to the miles of wilderness that was considered a part of Lothlorien. With the coming dawn, a silver mist had descended upon the elven valley and Legolas had been inexplicably comforted by the concealing cover and the illusion of safety that the fog provided. Estel had fallen asleep against Legolas's heart and his even breathing was the only sound as the sun rose.

Legolas felt the icy water filling his innards drip away – he could hide in the woods with Estel for weeks if the need be. He was a wood elf after all. He knew more about trees and nature than any elf in Imladris or Lothlorien. Yes, he could stay hidden if he wished.

But he never made it to the woods.

Elven warriors materialized out of the mist – blond hair gleamed in the first rays of sunlight. Hands the color of ripened wheat held the thick, two-handed swords that had made the Galadhrim famous. Cold eyes stared at Legolas as he clutched the boy tighter – inadvertently waking him.

"The boy is all we require, my King," one warrior said formally, his hand outstretched. "No harm will come to you."

"Legolas…" Estel murmured.

The elf placed one hand on the boy's lips. Legolas wanted to cover Estel's eyes – did not want the child to see the gleaming of steel swords or the hardened faces. "Hush, just rest."

Then he turned to the warriors. "I am the king of Greenwood – and you forbid me passage into the woods? That is a cause for war."

"We follow the orders of the Lady. You will give us the boy."

Legolas touched the flanks of his horse. "You cannot command me, soldier." And the horse leaped forwards.

Under the swinging hooves, the warriors scattered – but only for a moment. As Legolas charged towards the dark green tree line, he could hear the sounds of bows being drawn.

"Legolas?" and Estel's voice was distinctly panicked as he reached across the bond for reassurance. "Legolas?"

"Hush, little one."

An arrow zipped by and imbedded in the ground several yards ahead. Then another. And another. Legolas ducked low. It was only a matter of time until they stopped shooting to scare them – and started shooting to maim. He whispered in elvish to the fleet horse beneath him. She was a good horse – she would obey him and she would go much faster with just one rider on her back.

"Estel," he said and his voice only shook a little. "I want you to ride for Archet, all right? As fast as you can. Stay with Idella and Bartmelou – they will care for you and Mithrandir will come for you. Do you understand?"

There was jerk nod against his chest. "But what about you?"

"I will see you again." And the calm that had been so carefully preserved in Legolas's eyes vanished in that moment. His false peace vanished in the same moment that the steel tip of an arrow thudded dully into his shoulder – slicing through thick muscle and sinew – slicing until it impacted with the bone.

A gasp was torn from Legolas and he leaned forwards – smelling Estel's hair – feeling the warm shoulders. And then he was falling. He tumbled to the ground and landed in the soft pine needles. His head struck the earth and a thousand bursts of light covered the growing day.

He groaned and rolled onto his side, just in time to see Estel vanish into the safety of the woods. Legolas smiled as the tension of bunched muscles fled and his eyes closed. He had saved his Estel – his hope. Warm scents filled his nostrils – pine needles, sap, heady pollen, and rich blood.

The boy reached across the bond and he sent back another urge for the boy to flee far away and never come back – not for him. A mental sob was the only response and the connection faded as Legolas created a wall around his pain.

Strong, rough hands gripped him, rolled him over, shook him, fumbled at his neck for his pulse.

"Your majesty? I did not mean…"

"Get the boy!"

Running feet and horses' sharp neighs.

Legolas shook his head as arms tried to hoist him into the air. "No!" He took a deep breath and forced the strength back into his limbs. It was just a shoulder wound – he had been through many a battle with worse wounds than this. So he stood and took a deep breath. He shooed away the reaching hands and stumbled in the direction Estel had gone – he had to see… had to see if he had succeeded.

He was just in time to see the horse come thundering back towards him – Estel clutching to its mane.

"Legolas!" the boy shouted as the horse's hooves dug into the soft ground as she came to an abrupt halt in front of her master. "Legolas!" The boy's hair was wild and dark. "You fell! I could not leave you."

Defeat banged upon golden cymbals in Legolas's mind. But, when he looked into the wide, honest, caring gray eyes, the elf could not bring himself to be angry. Sadness – rich, devouring sadness – filled him and he pulled the boy from the horse and held him against his chest.

Dull, meaningless thoughts crossed his mind as the warriors drew closer to him. The first time he had held Estel – the boy's first step – his first word – knife lessons – when their bond had been created. Good memories – and after today, all that he had would be just good memories of a life gone beyond recall.

He did not speak as the guards led him back to Caras Galadhon with Estel held tightly against his chest. He could not. The arrow still in his shoulder throbbed but the sensation did not even reach his addled brain. There were no words.

Legolas could not keep his eyes off Estel. The beautiful boy that had become like his son – the child that had been with almost every day for the past thirteen years – this amazing boy who's light would soon be extinguished in the darkness of Middle-earth. And Legolas felt that if he looked away – the boy would vanish and there would be no time for one last goodbye.

In the maelstrom of thoughts, he was only marginally aware of the white, fraying bandage wrapped around his throbbing shoulder and the gentle, but firm hands clasping his upper arms.

"For your own good," Celeborn had said earlier when he had brought the guards to Legolas, his hand, gesturing first to the guards and then to the sedative the healer had given to Legolas. "To make sure that you do nothing to harm yourself."

Legolas had not cared. His hands had twisted inside his shirt and his eyes had stared blankly ahead in the direction they had taken Estel after they had ripped him from his arms. His mouth held the nasty aftertaste of the medicine the healer had just forced down his throat.

"Legolas," Celeborn had said with a deep sigh, "if you do not cooperate, I will keep you locked in this room until it is all over."

The words had pierced deeply into Legolas's psyche and he had reared backwards, eyes wild with fear. "No. I must say goodbye. They do not know where the souls of the mortal men go. They do not know. No one knows. I may not see him again. This could be the last time I will see him. He may be gone forever. His soul could be lost in the stars. I could never…" his mumbling voice dragged off and he had shivered as his arms had gone around his chest. "I will cooperate."

"Good." Celeborn had walked away.

And now Legolas stood near the silvery white of Galadriel's throne and kept his eyes on the small boy standing before Galadriel. He could see the dim, grayish cloud of fear rise off Estel's shoulders.

Do not be afraid, he wanted to say to the boy, I am here. I will protect you as I have always done. Everything will be fine.

But he would not say it. It was a lie. And he had never lied to Estel.

Now and then, Estel looked back at him. Wide gray eyes and trembling mouth. Little hands clenched into fists – Legolas wanted to loosen the fingers and put salve on the little half-moon scratches he knew would be on the palms. And when their eyes would meet, Legolas would smile a little – encouraging.

If the end comes, he would say to the boy if he could, I will hold you. I will sing you to sleep. And you will be the lucky one for the world will be a much darker place once your light is gone. But do not fear. I will be with you to the end. I will not let you be afraid. I will not let you feel any pain.

Dull awareness of the rest of his surroundings lingered in the back of his mind. Legolas was aware of Elrond standing just to the right of him, watching him with concerned, fatherly eyes.

_Yes, Elrond, _Legolas answered the elf lord's unspoken question in his head. _Yes, if this boy dies – I will depart over the sea, for my hope will have been murdered with him. And, yes, you will be a murderer and I will never let you forget that. And… someday… you will see how wrong you have been._

Galadriel spoke to Estel in that soft, deep, lethal voice of hers and Legolas made a half-hearted effort to lunge from the guards' hands and go to Estel.

Their hands tightened about him and his shoulder yanked in the restraint as the rest of his body surged forwards. Wounded fire spread down from the area and Legolas sagged in their grips with an almost silent moan breathing past his lips.

But, Estel – his Estel, the beautiful child that was so closely in tune with the elf's feelings – heard the bare noise that not even Galadriel with all of her elven hearing had caught. His head snapped towards Legolas and he took one step towards him. The magical white light had washed out his normally tan face and made his hair seem so dark against the paleness of his forehead and cheeks. "Legolas?"

Legolas bit his lip and took a deep breath through his nose. _Control the pain_, he told himself harshly, _for Estel_. And in the quiet desperateness of the moment, he realized that everything he had done since his father had died had been for Estel. His inhalation rasped loudly across his throat as he tried to gain his feet. One last deed for Estel and then Legolas would – could – do no more.

"Are you all right?" Estel's eyes were locked on his face and he darted forwards when the guards pulled a little too abruptly on Legolas's wounded shoulder. "Stop it! You are hurting him."

Small hands, slightly roughened from days of work, pressed into Legolas's back and arm in an awkward hug. The nut brown face leaned down so the mouth was level with Legolas's ear. "I do not know what they mean. They say I have darkness in me. I am not dark, am I?"

Legolas's knees would not hold him so he sank dully to the ground. His whirling thoughts calmed slightly as the scent of Estel drifted up to him. They had not done away with the boy yet. That was good. A lethargic smile crossed his face as Estel continued to look at him.

"Are you well?" Estel's brow puckered above Legolas and the dry, rough hands were on Legolas's forehead. He looked worried.

Dim acknowledgment of this fact filtered into Legolas's brain and he frowned. He opened his mouth to tell the boy that he could never be evil. He wanted to erase the lines of worry and doubt on the boy's fresh and smooth skin. But his tongue – the consistency of dry hay and cotton – was too heavy within his mouth. He tried again and an inarticulate grunt answered Estel's concerned eyes.

"You are not well," Estel said and Legolas was confused at the fear tingeing the quiet words. "He is not well." The louder voice hurt Legolas's sensitive ears. "What did you do to him?"

Galadriel's voice murmured somewhere in the background accompanied by Elrond's soft baritone but Legolas could make out none of it.

"Something to help him…"

"Relax… he was very upset…"

"You had no right!"

He was floating in warm, tranquil water – and the sun was touching his face – and the breeze was dancing over his lips. Hands gripped him harder and his brow furrowed just before a sudden shout cut through the idyllic paradise his mind had created. Warm water and gentle sunlight faded to be replaced by the harsh, white light and cool marble against his back.

His mind struggled to focus as the random smudges of color coalesced into the more tangible figures of Estel – clinging tightly to Legolas's arms – and two elven guards – trying to pull Estel away from Legolas.

And the raw animal was imbedded in his eyes as Legolas came alive, clutching Estel, bruising the boy's skin. He was a wolf and this was a member of his pride. He was a bear and this was his cub. Protective instincts were strong in animals and in this moment, they were strong in Legolas. But even he was surprised when a growl slid passed his lips as the guards yanked on the boy again. Mine.

He heard vaguely – as if the voices were from a deep cave beneath the earth and he was drifting high above in the clouds – gentle, soothing voices. They were telling him to just let the boy go – it would be all right – just release your grip – relax, Legolas – everything will be fine – we will take care of the boy – just let go.

Legolas tightened his grip.

Voices in his head. Voices in his ears. Hands pulling at his shoulders. And Estel's raspy sobs as he slowly was detached from Legolas.

His knuckles tightened as Legolas tried to pull Estel back to him. He could not see – could not see Estel's face! Streaks of yellow striped across his vision and distorted everything into dim, obscure shadows. What if this was the last time he saw Estel… and he could not even take one last look at his face? Legolas shook his head.

Then – just when Estel's fingers slipped from Legolas and Legolas felt his drug-addled brain begin to tumble into complete obscurity – there were thundering footsteps on the delicate steps.

A herd of oliphants? No – somehow Legolas knew it was Glorfindel. The way the smudge carried itself with a distinctly stubborn bearing. Glorfindel and… Elladan? Why had they come? Would they save Estel?

The tugging of Estel ceased and the boy sprang back into Legolas's arms. The elf's shoulder screamed as Legolas wavered backwards but he barely heard Estel's quick apology as Glorfindel's voice rose out of the muddle.

"There are orcs, my lady. Lord Celeborn and Lord Elrond and you are all needed at the outpost. We fear they will break our lines without the rings." His voice was quick and tense – so unlike Glorfindel's normally loud, self-assured voice that echoed across crowded, stifling meeting halls.

Legolas could smell Estel's hair again. He could feel the small muscles and smooth skin. He could still not see so he ran his fingers across the straight cheekbones and the soft curve of the jaw. He thought briefly about standing but ruled the possibility out as his muscles began to spasm within him.

His chin resting on Estel's hair, Legolas turned nebulous blue eyes – filled with desperate worry – towards where Celeborn, Galadriel, Elrond, and Glorfindel stood together. The guards were still at his back but – if he closed his eyes – he could imagine the forest on a bright day – just walking in sunlight.

But he could not close his eyes. Not when he saw a small vial filled with silvery fluid pass from Elrond's hand to Glorfindel's. Not when the three high-ranking elves swept from the throne room and left them alone.

The world merged and drifted in a mix of dull pastels – a silky mist that felt thick and heavy on Legolas's face. When the world once again sharpened, the guards were gone and Glorfindel was kneeling besides them.

"What is wrong with him?"

"I do not know." Estel had pulled back slightly and turned to Glorfindel with bright eyes. "He is quiet… I do not know if he even understands…"

Legolas grunted. One hand wavered outwards and then plummeted to catch Glorfindel's sleeve. "My friend." His voice rasped over his throat and a strange feeling – was nausea the word mortals used? – had settled in his stomach. "Do you intend to take him from me as well?"

Glorfindel did not answer. His noble face seemed to grow wiser and Legolas wondered if this is how he had looked when he had slain the Balrog so many centuries prior. "We come to take you both away, my king. An escape away from Lothlorien. Can you stand?"

A strong arm slid beneath his knees and shoulders. Legolas moaned and forced his head to lie still against Glorfindel's shoulder. That strange nausea rolled through him once again as he was hefted into the air.

"There is a horse," murmured the legendary warrior in his ear. "For you and Estel. Elladan and I will escort you to the edge of the forest. We have heard tell of rangers lingering Drimrill Dale. Their base is near the mountains, a one day ride from the Gladden River. Halbarad is among them – he will see you well."

The words flowed through and over Legolas – some making sense and others simply disappearing into the air. He nodded in bare comprehension. He would not question this chance at escape – he would travel across the Misty Mountains or crawl through the searing deserts of Harad if Estel's life would be the prize.

So, he held his body stiffly upright when he was placed astride upon a strong, wide horse and wrapped his trembling arms around Estel when the boy was set down in front of him.

But, despite his best intentions, as the horse began to gallop through the woods and Legolas could dimly see Glorfindel's flaxen hair as he led them both to safely, Legolas fell into drugged sleep. Even in the world of dreams, however, he still did not tumble from the horse.

* * *

Saruman roared in rage when the cowering orc informed him of their failure to capture Heir of Isildur. He roared again when he realized how soundly his orcs had been beaten by the elven forces.

The orc, however, did not live to hear Saruman's third roar of rage as the wizard discovered that the blasted Heir of Isildur had made his way into the welcoming hands of the rangers. And that elf was still with him.

Drastic measures would have to be taken if they wished to sway the boy to their own devious plots. And they would be taken – too much had been invested in this for them to stop halfway.

He would not allow his plans to fail.

But, meanwhile, there was still Rohan and Gondor to deal with.

**to be continued.**


	14. When Storms Are Gone

**Disclaimer: **I own none of the recognizable characters in this story—they all belong to JRR Tolkien and New Line.

**Wherever the Surge May Sweep**

**By Jame K. **

_**Chapter Thirteen: When Storms Are Gone**_

_How calm, how beautiful comes on  
The stilly hour, when storms are gone!  
When warring winds have died away,  
And clouds, beneath the glancing ray,  
Melt off, and leave the land and sea  
Sleeping in bright tranquility.  
- Thomas Moore_

The first sensation Legolas had become aware of was a tingly wetness clinging to his skin and the warm body pressed against his chest. He had opened his eyes and had momentarily thought the drug was still clouding his mind as he saw a drifting mist hanging before him.

Awareness had come slowly and he had seen the wet grass of the Drimrill Dale – the fresh, new green that faded into silver mist only a few lengths before his eyes. The dampness lingering in the air spoke of fresh rain and blooming flowers.

He must have made a movement for Estel's voice came from him in front of him, high and excited.

"Legolas? Are you awake?"

The heavy warmth left his chest as the boy twisted around to peer up at him with eyes that matched the mist.

"You were sleeping. Glorfindel said you would wake up soon but your eyes were closed and I had never seen that. And I was worried. He said that we have to find the Dunedain but I do not know what those are."

"I am well." Legolas blinked slowly, his senses coming into full awareness. "How long ago did they leave us?" The fog – Legolas knew – would hang over all of the plains and would possibly last several days. He would have to depend on his hearing alone to find the rangers and avoid the elves that he knew would promptly come hunting them as soon as the orcs were dealt with.

"Lord Glorfindel and Elladan? Not long." Estel's body sagged against the elf again. "Do you know where we are?"

"The Drimrill Dale. It extends from Lothlorien and runs alongside the Misty Mountains for several miles. The ones we are looking for often roam across its grasses." Legolas smiled. "It is a beautiful area. I am sorry that this fog prevents you from seeing more of it."

It was only a few moments later that sounds drifted through the fog to Legolas's ears. They were deep voices thick with accents of the North. And Legolas knew that they were safe. At least for a time.

Dark, brown figures emerged from white mist, ghostly phantoms from days long ago. Their weathered faces were wreathed in surprise. Not often did they find an elf and a boy alone on their journeys.

Nostalgia stole through Legolas as he viewed the earth toned clothing and dark, messy hair that seemed to be common among the rangers. Arathorn had looked much like this before his death. But, no, he could not think of that now. Arathorn was the past and Estel – _Aragorn_ – was the future.

"Halbarad?" he ventured, his voice carrying slightly as the rangers observed him silently and Estel pressed against him, nervous tendrils stretching across their bond. "Is Halbarad among you?"

And a tall man stepped from the middle of the rangers. His hair had gray where Legolas remembered there to be dark brown but his face still had the hawk nose and sloping cheek bones. A scuffed sling bound one arm to his chest.

"Majesty," he greeted with an easy bow. Legolas noted, with a hint of merriment, the absolute sarcasm in which the young ranger said the word 'majesty.' "What brings you to these foggy plains?"

Pebbles fell from the heavy burden on Legolas's shoulders. He was able to taste the wet moistness of clean air instead of the harsh dryness of withering ashes. His limbs felt as if air had been pumped through them, like at any moment they would just – float away. Legolas swung from his horse as he pressed a smooth hand to the dry, cotton of Estel's shirt.

_Stay here. We are safe for the time._

Then he moved to stand before Halbarad, his hands limp at his sides. "We come seeking asylum. I have called you friend for many years and I hope that I can offer my services in exchange for shelter for myself and the boy. You know of my talents on the battlefield. My arm will fight for you."

The ranger's stern face was suddenly transformed by a casual smile. "You are always welcome, Legolas, even if you were not to fight for us – you are welcome as our guest. And whoever your charge may be, he is welcome as well." The man took a step forwards and peered at Estel. Then he had turned back to Legolas, eyes wide with questions and a flare of suspicion. "Is he…"

A tremulous breath caught in Legolas's throat and he ignored the overwhelming desire to scoop Estel in his arms and cover his ears. But he restrained. Legolas smiled and touched Halbarad's arm. "I will speak to you, my friend, of many strange things. But not now." The elf was not ready for Estel to know the full story behind his parentage. The boy was still so young. No child deserved to have the weight of the world resting upon his shoulders. Legolas wanted Estel to remain innocent as long as possible. "Thank you for your hospitality. It is most appreciated."

"You are welcome." Halbarad's eyes darted back to Estel and Legolas thought he detected something akin to wonder in the ranger's wide gaze. "We are journeying back to our village and you may live among us as long as the need remains."

His voice dropped then – the words meant only for Legolas. He seemed hesitant to speak as if his words would awaken foul nightmares within the elf. "We had heard that you had fled into solitude after the deaths… They said your heart was swept up in grief. Some said that you had sailed at last over the sea..."

Legolas dropped his voice as well and turned his face slightly away from his young charge, though his eyes stayed on the open, wondering features of the boy as he examined the darkly clad rangers. "Not all of that family passed into darkness. That is why I come to you now. Please, my friend, I will explain all in the proper time. This I promise to you."

"As you will, my friend."

Legolas felt his heart lighten at the easy acceptance Halbarad offered to him. He allowed himself to relax. The fighting instincts that had been gushing though his body ceased and he suddenly felt very deflated – an empty water skin parched from the sun, ruined for the rest of time.

They were safe for the time being. Estel would live to be a man. Now, Legolas would not be alone in his protection of the last hope of Middle-earth.

* * *

A dark shroud clung to the land. Moon and stars were lost in the black void that lingered somewhere above the fog and a sharp chill drifted over the plains – a phantom seeking helpless prey.

The same chill that wafted through the air was slithering under Estel's skin and cooling his blood – even his veins felt the deep coldness. Small shoulders hunched towards the heavy warm relief that the licking flames offered. Pink smudges had bloomed on his cheeks from the licking flames but numbness clung to the nerves of his back. He wondered if snow was coming and then remembered that summer had only recently passed.

This was the first chill of autumn. Winter was so far in coming.

Human blobs with no real color sat around the fire – features obscured by the darkness and details washed out by the orange flames. Estel knew they were people – rangers, his mind filled in excitedly – but a sense of unease still pervaded his system as he sat among the unknown faces.

He could not help the way his eyes continually left the fire, the craggy visages of the men around him, and went to Legolas – he could not help it anymore then a babe can keep from crying out in hunger. This place – frightening in all of its newness and uncertainty – was almost painful to sit alone in. The desire to curl up against Legolas was too immense for words. But Estel knew that he would have to be brave for at least the time being.

The elf sat at a separate fire, orange flames illuminating the startling whiteness of his skin on the right side of his face while bathing left side of his face in gray, licking shadows. His brow was leaned close to that of the head ranger – Halbarad? – and a slight furrow had creased between his eyes. His mouth was barely moving as he spoke in soft – too soft for Estel to hear – tones.

They were speaking of him, Estel knew. The boy could tell by the way Legolas's eyes darted to him every few moments. He could tell by the anguished glaze that painted itself over the elf now and then.

Estel wondered what he had done – what grievous error he had dared to commit – that would cover the elf's face with such sorrow. For the boy knew that it must be something he had done – Estel had seen the same expression on Legolas's face the morning they had attempted to flee from Lothlorien. He had seen it as Legolas had held him close while the guards had escorted them back to the foot of the Lady's throne. After that, he had only seen a blurred expression and foggy confusion in the normally clear eyes until Legolas had awoken in the plains.

And now, here they were. Far from anything Estel had ever known – traveling with a group of men Estel had never met to a land he had never been. And Legolas seemed strangely at home – at peace – with these _rangers_.

Irrational anger made Estel's teeth grind into one another and he filled his lungs with the cold, smoky air. Why had Legolas never spoken of these men – these men who obviously knew Legolas well – to Estel? Did Legolas not trust him enough to share his life? And why did Halbarad stare at him with wide, amazed eyes? What secrets had the elf kept from him?

"What are rangers?" Estel asked suddenly and his voice sounded strange to his own ears. Red swamped over his cheeks – covering the natural pink flush caused by the fire – as Estel felt all eyes turn upon him. "I mean…" his voice trailed and his eyes dropped to the ashy wood. What had he meant? "How did you come about?" he asked lamely, hands twisting into one another.

A ray of orange fell onto the craggy features of the ranger across the fire – Estel though his name was Conran. "We were started long ago when the last Highking of Arnor fell into shadow. Our duty is to defend this land until the Heir of Isildur takes the throne and beyond if he requires." Conran's eyes darkened. "But the line died out several years ago."

"It is probably for the best." The voice was rougher than Conran's and the burly ranger was a hulking mountain in the midst of the dark sea of fog. "Their line was cursed." And spittle flew from his mouth to land on the dark dirt as his nose and cheeks wrinkled in absolute disdain.

There was a nameless stir deep inside Estel's breast and his mouth went dry as if the desert had suddenly taken up residence there. With a deep click, he swallowed and moved his tongue across the roof of his mouth. Why did his insides leap at those simple words? "What… why?" And he wanted to shake the man.

"Isildur is the one who made the mistake of not destroying the ring." Conran's face turned away from the fire but his voice was not full of malice – a deep seeded bitterness and regret instead laced the rough tones. "Some say that all of his descendants are destined to fall into the darkness of the Evil One. We do not speculate on the rumors." He shrugged and his eyes warned the other rangers to not press the issue in the range of the boy's hearing.

"Oh." Estel shrugged in return and blinked heavily. A queer fire was building in his belly and his nerves seemed to tingle beneath his skin. "If what you say is true," he said sleepily as he felt Legolas sit down beside him, "it is good that they are all dead. Middle-earth is probably better without them."

And dreams scampered across his mind and Estel followed them into the slumbering darkness. And he missed the flash of pain – a white-hot flare in the dark – that shot through Legolas at his words.

* * *

The moon was white and the hills were orange. Legolas walked below the gray blue sky, beneath the play of colors that signified the beginnings of dusk – and was content. His gaze was long across the continuing plains and he could see no danger. Safety was the quiet air and the trampled grass.

Legolas was quiet because there was no reason to speak. Estel rode beside him and the wide nature spoke of renewal. What reason was there to fret? What reason was there to ponder the yesterdays – the tomorrows? Those days would come in good time and the days behind were gone forever. And for now the air was calm and the peace had settled deep into his marrow leaving him so relaxed, so serene.

In this state, he could not imagine – or would not imagine? – horror ever seeping into his life again. The future stretched out before. He fixed his mind's eye on idyllic days in warm forests with the nature growing around them in the symbiotic nature that few knew or understood. He dreamed of a forever that could be lived without worry or pain or suffering or fear. An impossible eternity that was always just beyond the tips of his desperate fingers.

And a sunburst flared briefly behind the dark silhouette of a tree – the last pulse of a dying star. All was at peace in the world. A sudden shadow fell across the valley as the sun inevitably lost the fight for the day and disappeared behind the day. Darkness washed across the dusky colors and left the world in a million dull shades of gray.

The lack of light drew Legolas's eyes in the direction he knew the black mountain of Mordor protruded – where the great evil of Middle-earth festered in his own wicked stench. And he wondered – as even his farsighted eyes strained across the distance – if the Ringwraiths were coming.

"There have been reports," Halbarad had told him just the night before, "of the Black Riders and abnormally large orc armies haunting some of the northern villages. They raid the town and burn everything to the ground." His eyes had grown darker with every word. "That is where we are going. We have reason to believe they are moving towards the village of Archet. You know it?"

A breath had wheezed in Legolas's throat. "I know it."

Halbarad's eyes had weighed him carefully – measuring the elf's strength of spirit and will. Much had changed. "We plan on cutting them off at the canyon by the Gladden River. We have no reason to believe that a Black Rider accompanies them but your help would be greatly appreciated."

"You shall have my help but I worry for the boy… I will not see him put in any danger. He is too important to… Middle-earth." Legolas's eyes had darted to the form of the boy – small and hunched, framed by the orange fire. "I will go into battle for you but he must remain in a safe place for the duration and if I am to pass beyond this world, I would ask you to raise him with your people."

Halbarad had nodded. "I will not be able to accompany the party," he gestured futilely to his bound and broken arm. "I will watch over him and defend him with a few others during the battle." His mouth had softened and a glint of white teeth had appeared in the darkness. "And while I do not doubt your ability to come through battle with nary a scratch, the son of the kings will always have a home with us."

And the conversation had ended. Legolas had gone to Estel's side and Halbarad had gone to look after the tending of the horses. To the eyes of the other rangers – to the eyes of Estel – nothing had changed. But there was a tight, invisible chord of promised that stretched tightly between the elf and the lead ranger now – a chord that thrummed with unspoken vows and tomorrow's fears. And both felt strangely comforted by its hovering presence – as if a pact could save the future of Middle-earth.

_Legolas?_ The boy asked in the soft recesses of Legolas's mind. _You are far from me. Where have you gone? Have you left with the sun?_

_I am here. _Legolas made an effort to drag his thoughts from the sky and return them to the warm dirt beneath his feet and the cool air in the back of his throat – the earthy scents lingering on the boy next to him. "I am here with you." _I have not drifted away nor vanished with the setting sun._

_Good._ Estel smiled and his small hand opened in a tiny wave. "Do you want to ride? The horse is not tired."

"I enjoy the walk."

And Estel was quiet then. His mind was at conscious rest with the easy lolling of the horse beneath him. When the elf gently skimmed the surface of the boy's thoughts, he found a serenity born from familiarity and safety.

Legolas rubbed his shoulder against the strong, warm flank of the horse. They would stop soon, he knew. They would lie on the cold ground and take in a little bit of sleep and some nourishment. And tomorrow… tomorrow they would reach the Gladden River and wait for the orcs.

Even in the gathering of the evening's gray shadows, Legolas could see the silvery blue strip of the river and the brown dust rising into the pale, twilight sky from the approaching orcs. The elf imagined they would reach the river and the canyon a few hours ahead of the creatures – perhaps even half a day. There would be plenty of time for the rangers to set up an ambush for the vile creatures.

So then why there was a strange black cloud of misery hovering in Legolas's limited foresight? Why did he wish to take Estel and flee into some secluded location? There did not seem to be an excessive amount of orcs and there was no Nazgúl in Legolas's sight.

Everything was fine.

And Legolas made a conscious effort to shake the black shadow from his thoughts as the sky turned golden with the fading sun.

* * *

The forests were quiet. The orcs had been driven from the woods and all that remained was a fallen leaf – a broken branch – a white rock splattered with red. And Legolas was gone.

Glorfindel felt a measure of pride as he thought of the part he had played in the saving of Middle-earth – even as he watched Elrond's face wrinkle in concern and Galadriel's eyes grow dark. He knew – somehow in the warm corner of his mind – that he had done rightly.

So it was he who sat the watch in the boughs of a large tree. His bow was clasped loosely in his hand and his eyes were turned towards the Drimrill Dale. Legolas and the boy had long since passed from his sight, swallowed in the passing of time but he stood the watch just the same. A soft prayer – a song of the elves – rose from his lips as he plead with the wide plains to keep the travelers their own secret – to hide Legolas and the child from all unfriendly eyes.

He was waiting – waiting for a gray, tired mare to bring a ragged, mussed rider to the silent woods. He was waiting for some to reassure that a madness had _not _taken over his soul – that he was right to go against those thought wisest in Middle-earth – waiting for some one to reassure that there would be a dawn – a beautiful sunrise painting the eastern horizon – after this swiftly falling night had taken the land.

And his wait was not long. The Grey Pilgrim passed into his sight just as the day began to turn murky with the approaching night.

Glorfindel tilted his head and lowered his eyes when they met in the starlit grass only a few moments later. "Mithrandir, dark are the days in which you have come. I fear they are too dark."

The wizard had dismounted the tired mare and leaned on his walking stick. The worries of a thousand peoples lined his wizened face. "What has happened? The trees are still and the elves do not sing."

"There were orcs…"

Mithrandir muttered a curse.

"But we drove them away but some damage was done." Glorfindel paused a breath away from revealing the fate of Legolas. A sick, torn feeling had infested his insides, crawling over his organs and covering him in dread. If Gandalf… if Mithrandir did not believe in the child… could he be trusted with the secrets of the Drimrill Dale?

"And Legolas?" The wizard's words were quick and his eyebrows were tightened as he leaned closer to Glorfindel. "What of him and the child?"

"They – the Lady and Elrond – they decided the child was too dangerous." Glorfindel kept his face loose. "They wished to take him from Legolas and do away with him for the good of Middle-earth."

"By all the stars," Mithrandir breathed and in his eyes shone the fires of the depths of Middle-earth. "Tell me that they did not act so foolishly – or all of the elven realm shall know the wrath of a wizard. They will deserve whatever devilry Saruman can create if they indeed destroyed him."

Glorfindel could see the Drimrill Dale stretching behind Mithrandir; he could feel the warmth from the wizard's proximity; he could taste the bitter anger seeping from Mithrandir's crinkled features. "He lives." His voice was barely louder than the wind in the trees. "He lives and is safe. They escaped together into the Dale to abide with the Dúnedain for a time."

"Truly?" Mithrandir's face seemed to be frozen save for his slightly parted lips. "They live and are well?"

"Truly." Glorfindel gestured in the direction of the green plains. "I believe Legolas will be in sore need of your companionship. The circumstances of his departure were not pleasant – or well planned."

"I will go. How can I not?" Mithrandir swept back onto his mare, his staff clutched tightly. "You may communicate my regrets to the Lady and Elrond. Perhaps I will stop by some other time." A smile crackled across his face and he winked at the old elf before him. "You have done the right thing, Balrog-slayer. Your time in the Halls has made you wise."

"Mithrandir," Glorfindel acknowledged as Mithrandir urged his horse into a fast gallop. "Keep them safe."

* * *

Saruman's eyes were shut tightly as his hands clenched over the palantir. "They have decided to hide with the Men of the North," he spoke to the air. "They think they can escape my arm by lingering in the fog."

In his mind, he saw the approaching horde of orcs and he saw the rangers preparing to meet them at the pass – the rangers accompanied by one tall, blond elf with blue eyes and a set mouth.

The future unfolded and he saw the battle – a sweeping victory by the rangers – his plans thwarted once again as the orcs that were not slaughtered, fled before the brown clad men. But even as he cursed this future and the failure of his dreams, another possibility mapped itself before his eyes.

Rangers fell to the ground, bleeding. Orcs screamed in victory as they tore apart the white flesh of their enemies and devoured the butchered meat. And one elf lay on the ground in a puddle of crimson blood – eyes sightless and blood dripping from an open mouth. The orcs then pressed on into Archet, burning and ravaging all in their path. Darkness swept across the small towns of the plains. A certain boy was swept up in the grief of his mentor's death and rendered pliable to Saruman's gentle prodding. And Middle-earth fell into complete darkness.

Glee touched the old wizard's face as he stretched with his mental sense – trying to find the cause of this change in destiny. What factor would play such a crucial role in bringing the darkness to Middle-earth?

And then – a slow smile stretched across his weathered cheeks and a chuckle began deep in his throat. Oh, yes, he could do that. He could definitely do that. Why had he not thought of it before?

He spun from the room in a swirl from his white robes. There were many things to plan before the rangers met the orc army tomorrow. And, then, the future of Middle-earth would be secured.

**to be continued.**


	15. Mid the Thick Arrows

**Disclaimer: **I own none of the recognizable characters in this story—they all belong to JRR Tolkien and New Line.

**Wherever the Surge May Sweep**

**By Jame K. **

_**Chapter Fourteen: 'Mid the Thick Arrows**_

_Fate has carried me  
'Mid the thick arrows: I will keep my stand--  
Not shrink and let the shaft pass by my breast  
To pierce another.  
– Mary Ann Evans Cross_

Legolas unwrapped himself from his blanket just as the eastern sky turned a colorless white with the approaching dawn and lingering fog. The heavy smell of impending rain drifted from the west and soothed his senses as a small breeze kicked up the pale, damp dirt.

Basking in the now apparent change of seasons, Legolas crouched beside the dark, smoldering fire and poured some water over the charred wood. The gray, mushy ash steamed briefly before dying out completely. Around him, Legolas could hear rangers putting out their own fires and gathering their supplies. They would be ready to leave soon. His weapons were already fastened onto his back and his bow lay only a few feet away.

"Is Estel still asleep?"

Legolas's nod to Halbarad was short and his gaze did not leave the cold fire. "I do not want him to awaken until after we have departed." A fond smile stole across his face as he turned to look at the dark head resting on a make-shift pillow. "He will not be happy to be left behind."

"Do not worry yourself, my friend, I will watch him well." Halbarad crouched beside the dead fire and pointed to the sword strapped to his own side. "I am an excellent fighter with both arms and the men with me will protect him as well."

"I have no doubt," the elf agreed easily but there was an undercurrent of worry in the soft tone. Legolas turned his eyes to the low sky for a moment and then focused his intense gaze on the ranger next to him. "Make sure that he eats well today. And stays warm. He will not want to wear his coat but, please, insist that he does. If he gets wet, make sure he sits by a fire until he is dry again – even his boots." His gaze was weary with long years and there was a flash of white as he nibbled on his lower lip. "Humans catch a chill so easily."

Halbarad chuckled. "Do not worry. I have been living in this mortal body all my life. I know all about sicknesses. Your precious little one will stay warm and dry while you are away."

"Good. Good." The mud squished beneath his boots as Legolas stood, fingers automatically checking the security of the quiver strapped around his chest. "Tell him I will see him tonight. Make sure he does not worry after me."

The ranger nodded. "Do not worry," he repeated with a slight smile. "You would imagine he is the child of your blood when you see how much you concern yourself over his welfare."

Legolas' smile was secretive and his eyes were soft with memories. "Thank you for looking over him, Halbarad. It is debt beyond what I could ever repay." He stooped to gather his weapons. "I will see you later tonight."

Halbarad tipped his head to the elven king and Legolas watched as he moved silently through the morning mist to the main body of rangers, his dark hair seemingly wet with the foggy dew. "They will be ready for you soon," he called over his shoulder. "I will come you when they are prepared."

"It is cold," Legolas murmured to himself when the ranger was gone, observing how the rangers clutched their woolen cloaks tightly around their bodies. He looked down at his own thin sleeves and wished that he could understand these things for Estel. He wished that he could awake in the mornings and know that the boy would need extra warmth instead of only realizing the extent of the cold when Estel began to shiver. His gaze turned towards the boy now and his brows knit closely together.

One wool blanket was draped over the thin body and another was between the boy and the hard ground. Estel was lying on his side and he had pulled the blanket up to his nose sometime during the night. The only thing visible was the white skin of his forehead and the dark, wispy clumps of his hair sticking haphazardly in every direction as they stuck out from underneath the edge of the blanket.

Legolas frowned as he noticed the tiny shivers running sporadically through the small form of his charge. Why had he not thought of that the night before? Mentally berating himself, Legolas grabbed his own cloak from the pile of their belongings and draped it over the boy. He tucked the edges underneath Estel's body and pulled the hood up to drape over the top of the boy's head.

Estel sighed and burrowed underneath the new warmth, his face relaxing as the cloak vanquished some of the cold that probably lingered over him the entire night. His head turned slightly and gray eyes blinked sleepily open. "Going now?" he murmured, eyes already closing.

"Yes." Legolas touched the dark hair, brushing it back from the boy's cheeks. "I will see you tonight. Be good."

" 'm always good," Estel murmured and then fell back into sleep, his small hands coming up to pull the cloak over his head.

Legolas smiled and tucked the cloak more firmly around the boy. "Goodbye, Estel." And then he stood, stretching his arms over his head as the sun began to work its way through the morning fog.

"You may have needed that," Halbarad commented mildly from behind him. "I could have found the boy another blanket."

"I do not get cold and I will be back by the time the true night chill sets in." Legolas rubbed his hands on his thighs, feeling the soft fabric remove some of the dirt that had become ingrained in his palms. "Perhaps it will make me feel better to know that the cloak is doing some good while I am off fighting."

Halbarad shrugged. "They are waiting for you now. Do – not – worry." His hand gripped Legolas's shoulder as he tugged the ancient being in the direction of his horse. "You will be back before you know it. Estel will be quite safe with me and the others to protect him. I doubt the boy will even miss you."

Legolas could not keep the flash of hurt from his eyes but he almost chuckled when Halbarad hurriedly amended himself.

"What – what I mean was, well, that he will be so busy doing chores and running around that his mind will too occupied." The ranger shrugged helplessly and then grinned. "Ah, you know what I mean."

Legolas conceded with a nod. "I will see you tonight." A ray of sun found its way through the misty fog and touched his hair as he swung onto the horse. He smiled again. "Tell Estel I will be back soon."

* * *

Gandalf's startled into full wakefulness just as the first of the hot sunlight began to burn the fog away from the wide plains. He blinked once, twice, in the new brightness and waited as his surroundings full focus.

Coldness sat in the bottom of his insides and he shuddered at the unnatural quietness of the morning. Strange forebodings seemed to saturate the very air around him. Something was wrong – something was very wrong.

"Ah, Valar, no."

The old muscles in his weathered body creaked as he threw off the blanket and his joints complained loudly as he leaped to his feet. But that did not matter. Blood pounded in his ears and thoughts swirled inside of his head as a frenetic haste seized him tightly. His only thought was to haste as he gathered the few belongings he had scattered around the campfire the night before and loaded them upon his horse.

His stomach churned and he briefly considered taking a meal before he departed. The idea was quickly discarded as the foreboding made itself more prominent in his thoughts and worry made his gut clench tightly. Ahead of him, there were much more pressing matters than a hungry stomach.

Saruman's markings were all over the plain, stretching across the hills in the direction Gandalf knew that Legolas and Estel had taken as they left the forests of Lothlorien. Gandalf could feel the thick, dark taint of the turned wizard in the very air he breathed and the grass he walked. The smell of the evil wizard clung to the grasses and filled Gandalf with dread.

Saruman must have tracked Legolas and the boy to the plains. There was not much time. Haste was of the essence if Gandalf was to save them both from the grasp of the White Wizard. And he had to save them. Gandalf did not want to imagine a world in which Saruman successfully snared the Heir of Isildur. Today, the future of all of Middle-earth was trembling in the balance.

Within moments, the wizard had mounted his small gray horse and was urging the beast in the direction of Archet – in the direction the rangers had gone with Legolas and the boy. Soon, they were going at a gallop and the pace was still not fast enough to suit the concerned wizard.

His senses stretched out over the wide plains, soaring above the dense fogs and scanning the blue skies and hills beyond.

There were the orcs – not too many to be a threat to a party of rangers. That alone could not be the cause of the great dread in Gandalf's heart. There had to be something more that Gandalf was missing. Something…

A black shadow seemed to dance through Gandalf's thoughts and a distant echoing of an unearthly bellowed fill the wizard's mind. And Gandalf froze. By Ilúvatar, he hoped he got there in time.

* * *

Bitter tastes hung in Legolas's mouth. He swallowed and took a deep breath. But it was no good – his mouth still tasted of bile. Physically, he was crouching on a narrow ledge – arrow pointed towards the seething mass of orc flesh below him – waiting for the signal. Mentally, he had drifted beyond the fog and sickening smells. He was serene and calm. Orcs could not hurt him. He was safe.

He sat at the canyon's narrowest point – the pale blue ribbon of the Gladden River narrowing to nothing more than thick stream against one canyon's smooth cliff walls. The orcs were forced to journey three abreast here, caught between the white cliff and the sparkle of the river – easy pickings for the talented archers crouching above and the skilled swordsman waiting below.

There was barely a flinch when a shrieking whistle resonated off the slate walls of the canyon. His fingers itched for another arrow as his released. The balls of his feet pivoted against stone. Aim – release. Battle coldness settled across his mind – no thinking – no feeling – reacting.

Brown clashed with brown – the brown of the rangers' jerkins fighting with the weathered brown skin of the orcs. Legolas wondered how a mortal's eyesight could discern between the different combatants. They were just a seething mass of bodies with occasional flash of silvery white.

He was detached, unmovable, as he watched screeching, bleeding orcs stumbling up in the incline below him as they tried to reach the hidden archers that were so steadily picking off their numbers. The smooth, cool wood of his bow shifted from palm to palm for a better angle.

_They must be very desperate_, he thought, _to run so openly into the points of the arrows without true order._

His fingers reached for an arrow and came away empty. His nostrils flared once and he glanced to the ten rangers serving as archers with him. _Boys,_ his mind supplied cynically, _only a few years older than Estel._

They looked back at him with wide, steady faces. Their bows lay empty at their thighs and their fingers were curled around their swords. And Legolas nodded his command.

His back foot propelled him off of the ledge while his hands drew the knives from his back. Tucking his knees close to his body, he somersaulted over the slope and straightened just before he impacted with flat, dirt ground.

The odd, gaping mouths of the orcs shouted in warning as they slid towards him on the pebbly slope. Spittle dripped from yellow, pointed teeth and squinty eyes ogled him hungrily.

Cool metal slapped against his palms as he flipped his knives in graceful arc. He balanced his weight on his front heel and lunged forwards while simultaneously ducking the dark, swinging blade. The tip of his knife caught ragged gut skin of an orc and a spurt of black blood sprayed onto Legolas's arm. He stood to his full height, slashing both knives upwards quickly. One silver blade bisected the middle of the orc directly in front of him while the other slashed the throat of the orc on Legolas's right.

He took a breath through his nose and jerked his left arm upwards and backwards, his blade slicing deeply into the nostril of the orc behind him. His blade came away with gray brain matter.

A harsh breeze caught Legolas's hair and blew the blond strands across his face even as he turned, a sick feeling settling in his stomach. Something was wrong. His lungs jerked roughly against his ribs and that horrid foreboding crossed his mind just as nine black riders cross the ridge on the other side of the Gladden River.

The Nazgúl had arrived.

His gaze desperately went to those fighting with him as the whining, screeching cry of the black riders pierced his eardrums.

Legolas could not help himself. One knife fell to the sandy ground as he tried instinctively to protect his ears from the horrid noise. His eyes slammed shut and his knees buckled. A beat passed and all that existed was the cacophony raging in his ears.

_Legolas! What is happening?_

Impossibly, Estel's frightened voice across their bond drowned out the shrieking and Legolas was able to gather his thoughts – thoughts such as his impending death if he did not get up off of his knees and fight.

_Peace, Estel. Everything is fine._

He dropped his arms from his head and grabbed his dropped knife, springing back to his feet even as he backpedaled from the approaching riders. Bone crunched beneath his elbow as he drove an orc's nose back into his brain. A tired grunt passed his lips as he leapt atop a rock, his gaze skimming over the battle.

Many of the orcs had been slaughtered – only a mere handful remained on their feet – but Legolas's heart ached for the amount of dead rangers strewn across the bloody ground. His eyes turned to the Nazgúl once more. If they could not escape – if they could not die – he and the rangers would be cut down as a lamb led to the slaughter. And that could not happen.

"Rangers of the North!" His voice rose above the rising din of the battle – the galloping hooves of black horses – even as he sprung lightly from the rock and began a light jog towards the depths of the canyon. "To me!"

A cave – small and high on the rocks, but it would hide them all for a time. They could defend themselves against the Nazgúl with greater ease there – if they could make it to the rocky haven in time.

The fog was rolling over the cliffs, gray and silky as it stretched towards the fleeing rangers.

Legolas risked a glance behind and his heart cracked at the amount of dead men sprawled on the ground. If there had not been the Nazgúl on the ridge, Legolas would have stopped and given the respect. He would have said a prayer for the fleeing mortal spirits, blessing their entry into the Halls of Mandos. But, now, he had to see to those who yet drew breath.

A vague, stifled cry rose up on Legolas's left. Crimson blood spurted across the colorless ground and pebbles spurted every which way as a young ranger began to stumble to the ground – an arrow caught in his calf.

Rough material filled Legolas's fingers as he lunged forwards to grip the boy's tunic. Gathering a fistful, he yanked the boy to his side and tucked his arm around the narrow waist. "You must keep going," he ordered with breathless haste. "Do you understand? You will die if you fall now."

Bloodless lips parted in a choked moan and the dark head lolled on Legolas's shoulder even as his feet kept moving at the elf's insistence. "Hurts," he murmured with the frightened voice of a child.

There was no time for pity – no time for soft words. Legolas tightened his fingers and began tugging the boy up the slope towards the cave, sardonically considering how many times he would perform the same feat with Estel in the upcoming years. Only a few more steps and they would reach relative safety.

Dust slid down on the pair as the rangers ahead of them slid into the haven. Pebbles rolled down the slope, disturbed by the running feet.

Legolas lurched forwards, dragging the boy the remaining steps. Dust coated the insides of his mouth and his stomach rolled as he gagged heavily. He blinked – once – twice – and wondered why the pale dirt in front of him had turned a deep scarlet. Slowly, his eyes drifted upwards to the boy he had dragged into the caves – the red blood spurting from his calf.

"Lay still." Legolas flinched at how harsh his own voice was

But the boy obeyed the terse command instantly, his mouth wide and gaping like a fish on land. "You – you – saved…"

Legolas resisted the urge to cover the flapping mouth with his hand. "Yes. Now stay quiet." Mild irritation touched Legolas's face as more pebbles and dirt rained down on them. He tossed a reassuring smile to the boy before gripping the muscled shoulders and dragging him away from the hole.

"The arrow?" The boy's frightened, green-eyed gaze canvassed Legolas's face. "What will you do?"

"Hush." Legolas smiled as he turned his eyes upwards to meet the boy's. "You will be fine." An odd tenderness gripped Legolas's throat as the boy trembled beneath his hands. So he smiled again and patted the boy's head. "It will hurt but then you will be better. Do you understand?"

A stubborn glint set in the boy's eyes and Legolas allowed himself to be impressed. "I will not cry out."

"Good." Legolas hoped the smile he gave the boy was warm and comforting. But his gaze kept darting towards the gray opening and the rangers perched against the sides, firing arrows to the orcs surging below. "Good. There will be only a moment of pain." He turned his eyes back to the dark arrow. "Breathe."

Slippery fluid coated Legolas's palm and he struggled for a moment to brace his hand properly on the bloody calf as his fingers wrapped around the dark shaft. He took a deep breath of his own and swiftly pulled. A gout of blood appeared with the black arrowhead and Legolas pressed a long cloth to the wound. "It is done."

Sweat clung to the boy's cheeks and forehead and his eyes were dark and glassy. "Yes – yes. Thank you." A weak smile touched the pale face and the dark head sagged against the ground. "The bleeding…"

"Will stop in a moment." Legolas wrapped the calf and knotted the bandage lightly. "You will be fine again in no time." The boy's head felt clammy and he used his thumb to wipe away sweat from the green eyes. "Sleep now."

The boy nodded and closed his eyes.

Driven by the compelling urge to guarantee Estel's safety, Legolas stretched his mind in the direction of the small boy. A tired smile tugged at lips when he found the boy half-asleep. Instead of waking the boy, Legolas cast a pulse of warmth and love to the child. Then, he picked up his bow and rejoined the fight.

* * *

A night and a day. Legolas rubbed his hair against his scalp and rested his chin against the cold rocks. A night and a day they had laid in this grotto – without food, very little water, and a dwindling supply of arrows.

When the dawn had burned away the fog and the sun had streamed against the ground, the last of the orcs disbanded into the hills. But the Nazgúl stayed. The sun rose through the pale sky and the rangers heard the stamping of hooves and the hoarse snorting of horses.

Eighteen men were crammed together into small, dank cave. Four were… Legolas swallowed and turned to look behind him. He imagined he could smell the teeth grinding scent of blood. Legolas wondered if the deep crimson stains reflecting on the floor were there – or it was just his own imagination creating horrors to further shake his resolve to escape from this place alive.

He turned back around. Four men were dying. Four boys were bleeding their life away on the stone floor. And they could do nothing but crouch in the dark and wait for the Black Riders to leave.

Unless… Legolas tilted his head back and stared into the deep canyon. "Conran?" he called behind, wincing when his voice seemed to echo against the low ceiling and bounce off the close walls.

The man bent down beside him, his gaze questioning.

"We…" Legolas swallowed. "If we are going to get out, it has to be now."

Conran looked into the gray sunlight. "Dark might be better…"

"The Nazgúl's eyesight is very poor, my friend. They will smell us in daylight or in starlight." Legolas gestured behind those lying wounded on the floor. "And they will not last until the sunset."

The man was silent, his gaze studying the gray contours of the rocks. "What do you suggest then? Run from the cave and let them kill us in flight? I must admit that seems better than starving in this dank place."

"Listen." Legolas pulled the man's sword from his hand and waved it before his eyes. "Orc blood. We can confuse them by painting the men with orc blood. They will not understand at first and time will be bought."

"But not long enough to make a good escape. The Nazgúl have horses. We travel on foot with wounded." Conran shook his head, his eyes drifting away from the elf's. "Still it is better than no plan."

"It will work." Legolas' smile was small and firm. "It will work."

* * *

Estel sat on his knees in the damp grass. He was vaguely aware of the wetness seeping into the thin cloth of his leggings. A stiff breeze had started during the night and continued through out the bright chill of the midday. But Legolas's cloak was warm and Estel found the continued coolness a wonderful excuse to remain wrapped in the soft folds that smelled of the elf.

Legolas had been gone a day and a night and a day. Estel had vague remembrances of awaking when Legolas had been leaving and the elf's whispered goodbye. Estel remembered how head rolled over and fallen back into sleep with just a mumbled farewell, expecting Legolas to be back within the day.

But Legolas had not been back within the day – or the night – or the next morning. And there had been no word.

Estel had reached through their bond many times throughout the time of Legolas's absence and had only found a projected calmness and serenity, masking a deeper worry and fear that Estel could not discover the root of. He knew, however, one thing for certain. The mission had to be going poorly or Legolas would have reached out to reassure him.

Yesterday, Estel had been dozing by the fire when he had felt the familiar touch of Legolas's mind against his own. He had grasped desperately at the tendril, clambering against Legolas's mental barriers. But he had been shut out quite firmly with only a faint whiff of warmth and comfort.

Estel sighed heavily and drew the edges of the cloak towards his face. Behind him, he could feel the worried eyes of Halbarad boring into his back. The older ranger had tried to comfort him and tell him it was probably a simple delay – maybe they had run into rain?

The boy had just shaken his head and retreated to sit alone and wait for word. An awful feeling of dread had gathered in his heart and icy water was dripping through his veins. He was scared.

The boy in Legolas's arms stirred groggily, his eyelids fluttering as he was jostled up the steep slope of the canyon and towards the questionable safety of the plains beyond. His white lips moved and a trickle of blood fell down his colorless cheek to drip down to the earth, leaving a ghastly trail. "What…"

"Shhh," Legolas pressed the lolling head to his chest and quickened his stride, ignoring the stickiness of dried orc blood on his forearms and the front of his tunic. "We are escaping. Soon you will be home."

"Home?"

"Shh." And the elf ignored the wet feeling on his stomach – the boy's red blood soaking into his clothing.

A fog was beginning to creep over the land again. Smoky tendrils reached across the slate rock from the green dale beyond. Legolas was grateful. If the men could get far enough way, they could lose themselves in the fog.

"Legolas." Conran stepped beside him, his brows knit and the torch in his hands flickering a little in the growing breeze. "The Riders are restless. I fear…"

"I know. We will make it." Legolas turned his head and watched as the black horses began to prance and whinny. "We must make haste." And it hurt Legolas when he had to ignore the pained moan of the boy-ranger.

The sound of hooves made Legolas turn again – made Legolas thrust his precious burden to the arms of Conran as he saw the Black Riders turn and gallop towards them. He hesitated for a bare moment, thinking of Estel, wishing he could see the child again. For a breath, he wondered if he was needed dearly in the future of Middle-earth – if his death would cause all to spiral out of control. Then he dropped his gaze to the bloody face of the youth he had carried up the hill. And he knew. The rangers would guide Estel on the right path – with or without Legolas. He was expendable and he would not let these men – these boys – die this day. He pushed the boy into the open arms of another ranger.

"Go!" he shouted, not sparing the rangers a glance as he started back towards the canyon and the approaching Nazgúl. "Run!"

"What are you doing?"

The incredulous tone hanging in Conran's voice made Legolas smile just a little. "Go – I will hold them off for awhile. I have more of a chance of surviving them than you, my friend. Run, now!"

"Damn fool," the man muttered and Legolas smiled when he heard the man's feet quicken across the grass. He smiled again when he heard the horses head directly for him. His ploy had been a gamble – but he knew Saruman did not want a group of dirty rangers. Saruman wanted the elf-king.

His plan would work – the rangers would escape – Estel would be protected by the rangers and Gandalf until he was ready to claim the throne of his forefathers. And eighteen precious lives would be saved this day.

A brief flash of fear zinged through his heart as the horses bore down. He had always imagined he would see Estel become a man. As death loomed, he wrapped his thoughts around the bond, sending reassurances and love to the boy.

_Be safe. Be healthy. Be whole. Remember me with love._

Then, even as he felt Estel clamber against the bond, he shut down that section of his mind and focused on his survival and the survival of the men behind him. And he still had that flame of hope in his heart – when he swung his torch like a scythe at the first Ringwraith – he still had the hope that he would survive and see his child again.

**to be continued.**


	16. These Battered Heroes

**Disclaimer: **I own none of the recognizable characters in this story—they all belong to JRR Tolkien and New Line.

**Wherever the Surge May Sweep**

**By Jame K. **

_**Chapter Fifteen: These Battered Heroes**_

_The last flash . . . and the hideous attack  
Dies like a wisp of storm – discouraged flame;  
And soon these battered heroes will come back,  
The same but yet not the same.  
– Louis Untermeyer_

Long ago – not too long, Legolas thought, in the years when he was still was friendly with Elrond and Rivendell – the older elf had spoken of the Nazgúl. The elf lord had said that _he _had once known them before…

"No man can kill them," he had intoned deeply, corners of his mouth turned downwards. "But it is possible to dissuade them from their goal." His long-fingered, white hand waved in the direction of the candle and then out the study window. "Fire, water, rocks – the elements. Once they are disbanded, it can take days, months for them to regroup. It is your only chance against the Nine – to conquer them for a time so that you may have time to flee from them."

The Black Riders stopped, yards away but Legolas could smell the familiar sweat of horse and the sweet fragrance of death. Their metal boots made little noise on the damp grass and their swords were dull flickers in the increasing fog. Legolas clutched the torch in his hand and did not move his face.

"They can smell your fear," another elf had whispered late one night when the stories were being told. "They smell terror and they are drawn to it – like vultures seek after the carrion. Do not let them see your fear."

He did not move as they slowly circled him with their knives flashing – darkness closing in on a lone candle. He was the ploy – the bait – the diversion. If they wanted to circle him, so be it. Let them waste time.

Only the fog drifting by marked the passage of time as the combatants studied each other – the Nazgúl with invisible faces and gleaming swords – and Legolas with tense hands and stubborn eyes.

They were wary of the fire, he imagined, clutching the torch a little closer. They wanted to intimidate him – they wanted to see him quailed before they attacked. But he did not have time to think more on the subject as one of the dark figures darted towards him, cutting a swath through the silvery fog.

Legolas bent his knees and lowered his head, darting under the quick swish of the small, gray blade. The hand holding the torch lashed outwards, catching the mid section of the dark flowing robe.

_What if the flames did not catch hold to the dark robes?_ The thought vanished from him just as flames leaped upwards – singeing his hand and making him leap backwards. Surprised relief shot through him and he smiled, reveling in the tiny victory that had been given to him.

Unearthly shrieks filled his ears as the dark figure was lit by orange, burning light. Metal boots made imprints in the soft grass as the wraith stumbled backwards, breaking past his fellows and disappearing into the fog.

Two more came then and Legolas swung the torch almost as he would a sword before him. He twirled to the right and caught the billowy, black sleeve of one – then twisted and caught the chest of another with the red hot flames. Even as they fled in the direction their burning comrade had gone, a blade scraped against his shoulder and Legolas spun, barely missing the knife heading towards his neck.

He was momentarily startled as he realized for the first time how _tall_ the Nazgúl really were – his eyes staring directly at the cloaked chest only a few inches away from his face. Then he lunged again, driving the torch at the creature's empty hood as the creature swung his own weapon towards Legolas. The following scream hurt his head and made his ears ring. But the pain was more than recompensed as he watched the tall figure stumble back into the one behind, setting them both on fire.

And three came at him at once, then, tall and vicious in their stature. He caught the first figure by a lucky stroke of the torch and caught the blade of the second on his own knife while he drove the fire forwards. But, as his blade locked tightly with the one in front of him, he was ill prepared to defend against the one coming at him from behind. Even as the Ringwraith before him was caught up in flames, he felt icy metal blade touch his skin and then enter his lower back.

A queer expression touched his face and his mouth opened in silent complaint of a wrong that would never be voiced. He was aware of his own blood coating the blade, warming the freezing metal and cooling his pierced muscles. Choppy breaths shuddered in and out of his lungs and his knife dropped from weakened fingers – only by some miracle did he manage to maintain his grip on the soft wood of the torch in his other hand. He looked down and was only numbly surprised to see a grossly bloody, metal tip protruding from the area of his stomach.

The knife twisted brutally, scraping against the underside of his ribcage, and then exited his body. Legolas was keenly aware of the gaping, bleeding hole in his middle where none had been before and where none was ever intended to be.

Legolas faltered, knees weakening under the hot pain rushing through his overtaxed nerves. His mouth opened – but he did not scream. He stepped forwards, wavered, and thought about falling. The shadow loomed over him and he could almost feel the knife preparing to swoop down into his body once more, dividing muscle and flesh and sending him to his untimely death. Stars of his own making flickered briefly in the gray, cottony fog and Legolas breathed once, gathering the tattered remnants of his strength one last time.

Then he spun – with speed that even surprised himself – his right hand thrust outwards, catching the black shoulder. Bright flames shot through the air, burning up the fog and the black cloth. With a final scream, the eighth Ringwraith ran.

Fog curled before Legolas's eyes and his muscles loosened. He made a faltering effort to save the torch from falling but his strength had left him – just as his own blood covered his stomach and back, dripping down into his leggings.

The torch dropped into the damp grass, rolling and spluttering as it fought to keep burning in the dewy wetness of the grass. Legolas followed the flame to the ground. His ankles weakened and his knees crumpled – his head shook from side to side in denial but, then, that too ceased in the face of weakness. Slack faced and quieted by the loss of blood, he toppled forwards, breathing in the earthy grass before rolling to face the gray fog above him.

He heard the dull footsteps on the soft grass as they came directly towards him but he could not bring himself to care at all. Estel was in his mind, his panicked young voice begging for Legolas to be all right. But it hurt to _breathe._

So when the Witchking towered over him, Legolas did not move – did not close his eyes. He held himself still, just waiting.

* * *

Estel was terrified. There had been a quietness over the bond since mid-morning – as if Legolas was trying too hard to maintain a false calm for Estel's sake. The boy had battered himself against the thick calmness to no avail. And then, when the first tendrils of dusk swept across the sky, the peacefulness had vanished.

_Be safe. Be healthy. Be whole. Remember me with love._

And Estel had shouted then. First it had been in glee at hearing Legolas's voice in his mind again after so long; and then, his glee had deteriorated into panic as the full meaning of Legolas's words swamped over him, pulling him under the surface of complete fear. The words – they sounded like a… like a farewell.

He had fled into the bond that he shared with Legolas, desperately searching for anyway to burrow into the elf's mind. At first, he thought the barriers were impenetrable – and he felt the beginnings of tears burning at his eyes. But, then, he noticed a weakening of the walls as Legolas's attention was turned outwards to whatever he was facing in the physical realm.

Legolas was deeply entrenched in battle. Estel could sense vague flashes of gleaming metal in fog and dark, looming shapes accompanied by a blazing brightness – fire, perhaps? He could sense his mentor's deep concentration and focused determination as the battle wore on.

Estel relaxed. Legolas was the best fighter he knew. The elf would be all right no matter what foe he was facing, he reassured himself. He could sense the lightning fast movements Legolas made as he defended and attacked.

Estel felt himself oddly comforted by the fast rhythm of the battle. Legolas would be all right, he convinced himself, smiling slightly with his arms wrapped around his chest. Everything would be fine. And, then, a jolt of burning pain shot across the bond and tore a scream from his chest.

When the pain faded, Estel found himself curled on the grass, his hands grasping his stomach as Halbarad bent over him. Blood was in his mouth from where he had bitten down on his lower lip. The boy knew he should respond and assure Halbarad he was all right. But, he could not. His entire mind was focused solely on Legolas and praying to Ilúvatar that the elf was all right.

He clearly felt the elf's determination and resolve as the pain was blocked from his mind by Legolas. He felt a flash of strength zip through Legolas's body and mind and Estel was heartened. Then, the strength faded – draining away from the powerful elven body – only to be replaced with complete and devastating weakness.

Legolas was – was – giving up?

Estel shrieked – mentally and physically – begging Legolas to keep fighting, to _win _this battle. Legolas could not give up.

A soft wave of comfort drifted over the bond, touching Estel's crying spirit. Estel calmed for a moment but dissolved into tears again when a harsh wall cut him off from Legolas completely.

And, then, a flash of sheer panic shot through the bond. It lasted only a moment before soft warmth and love pulsed towards him like a babe sighs before sleep, a wordless benediction. Then the mental link joining Legolas and Estel snapped and Estel was left alone – no comfort, no panic, no Legolas.

He could not move, breathe, or think. His mouth opened but no noise came out. Tears filled his eyes but he did not blink. His back arched as muscles clenched and twitched within him. A tremendous pain swelled inside of his head, climaxing in burst of fireworks that finally freed his tongue.

So he screamed – hands clutching his head and eyes tightly squeezed shut. Hands were shaking him, voices were calling in his ears but he could not, would not care. All that existed was the pain of a broken bond in his mind and the overwhelming grief in his heart as the fearful reality sunk in. Legolas was gone.

* * *

Gandalf rode into the camp near midnight. His face was weary and his eyes were dark with questions. He had sensed something lingering in the air as he drawn nearer to the rangers– a bitter malice and a creeping grief, threatening to forever smother the light of a vibrant young spirit on the threshold of life. His first words were directed to Halbarad as he dismounted his horse. "Where is he?"

The ranger had bowed his gray head and gestured to the leaping flames of the fire and a small figure swathed in blankets and stretched besides the orange light. "It is as if he were sleeping – but never have I seen sleep such as this. I fear you have come too late to help him."

"Humph." Gandalf brushed by the ranger, heading towards the glowing light of the fire. "We will see about that." But his eyes did not hold the supreme confidence that his voice exuded. Real doubt and fear lingered in his heart – what if indeed he had failed Middle-earth's last hope?

The boy's eyes were open – glimmering like bright spots of silvery metal framed by dark fringes. But they were fixed on the unknown beyond, lacking that quicksilver spark of intelligence that Legolas had always been so proud of. Breath wheezed through white lips and the tan face was colored a sepulchral gray, waxy and still.

As Gandalf approached, kneeling beside the quiet boy, the ranger who had been attending to Estel moved respectfully away.

"He has been like this for at least an hour," Halbarad commented, hovering near the fire as he shrugged helplessly at the wizard. His hands wavered in the air, trying to paint a picture that his voice could not say. "He collapsed and started screaming without warning. When his voice at last fell quiet, it seemed as if his mind did as well. He would not speak or move. He just lies as if death had already claimed him."

Gandalf nodded, placing one hand on the boy's pale forehead and the other on his heaving chest, sensing the agony that surged from the boy in dark, deadly waves. "Where is Legolas?" he asked – heart already knowing the answer but needing to hear it with his own ears.

"He went with a party of rangers to take care of some orcs – we have not seen them since they left the morning before last. I – I do not know if he is alive or dead." Halbarad leaned closer over the boy. "Can you help him – save him at least? Legolas will not forgive us if he is harmed."

"Perhaps." Gandalf closed his eyes and opened his mind, his own spirit gently touching the dimming soul of the child. He found grief – mind-numbing, soul-breaking grief – and deep pain enveloping the boy.

Gently, he soothed away the agony and offered reassurances to the wracked mind. As he reached deeper into the wounded mind, Gandalf found the source of discomfort – a broken, weeping wound in the deep folds of the boy's psyche. Estel's bond with Legolas had been snapped brutally – an event that was supposed to only occur when one of the participants of a bond died.

Gandalf allowed his own grief to settle for a moment as the reality of Legolas's death crashed over him in waves. But then he pushed the sadness away. The breaking of a bond was hard to deal with in the best of circumstances – but in a small child with no warning or time for preparation? "Estel," he called gently. "Awake."

The boy twitched just a little beneath his hands and fell still again.

"Estel," Gandalf urged, running a hand down the downy locks and cradling the boy's spirit in his own. "Come back to the light. It is too soon for you to wander in the world of shadows. Do not depart this world before your time."

A sigh whistled past Estel's lips and the silver eyes were hidden for just a moment before blinking open again. The young brow furrowed and the mouth turned down a little in a confused frown. "Mithrandir?" he breathed.

"Yes, young one." Gandalf spent no time wondering how the boy remembered him from their first meeting so long ago.

"Legolas said you would come," the boy continued, eyes slipping shut in unnatural weariness. "He said you would take care of me."

"And, indeed, I will – that is a promise I will most definitely keep." Gandalf brushed an old and weathered hand over Estel's sagging eyelids and slackening mouth. "Sleep in peace now. Regain your strength for tomorrow."

Estel seemed to succumb to the command and his body's need for rest for a moment. Then his body jerked, muscles tensing and mouth opening. "Legolas!" he cried brokenly, sitting up straight. His hands flailed in the empty air searching frantically for someone who was not there – who would never be there again.

Gandalf caught the hands and held them close against his chest, ceasing their erratic movements and warming the cold skin.

Wide, gray eyes turned to him, lost and troubled. "He is gone. I cannot – cannot feel him in my mind. Mithrandir…" The boy's face crumpled in grief as the wizard offered no reassurances to his rambled words. "I felt him leave," he whispered and the wizard could fairly feel the despair and heartache oozing from the words.

"I know, young one. I am sorry." He wanted to say more – but the reassurances that sprang to his tongue felt dreadfully inadequate and _empty. _ "He is at peace now," he finally managed. "He will never feel pain or sorrow again."

Tears filled the boy's eyes, tumbling over to streak down his cheeks and fall from his jaw line to create damp spots on his shirt. His gaze turned inwards and Gandalf could sense him prodding the ragged edges of the bond – picking at the brown, rough scab of a newly sealed wound.

"Estel, no." He caught the boy's hand and urged the boy back to the present. "The pain will grow less after a time. I promise. But do not poke at the bond – it will only make the pain and loss worse."

The boy's eyes fell and he dropped to lean against the large chest, resigned and empty. His eyes drifted shut and his features began to relax – even though drops of water continued to run down his cheeks.

Gandalf touched the back of the boy's head and soothed the troubled thoughts. He was sure the boy was going to give in to the pull of sleep – but then a shout went out over the camp. The wizard lifted his eyes and beheld a straggled group of rangers slowly approaching the fire – merely ragged shadows in the sea of night blackness.

Estel jerked against Gandalf's chest and sat up straight, rubbing his eyes and shaking his dark head. "Is Legolas with them?" he asked quietly, a little breathlessly, and Gandalf knew what he meant.

"I do not know. Do you want to…?"

Estel stood, wavering just a little. His gaze turned upwards as Gandalf stood as well. "I want to know how he… how he died," he whispered, eyes reflective and lost. "He once told me about an elven funeral… I would like to…" Estel stopped then – unable and unwilling to say anything more. "I need to see him again – to give him the rites that he deserves."

Gandalf nodded and rested a steadying hand on the boy's shoulder. His mind cringed away from the vision of Legolas laying quiet and still upon the elven funeral pyre, his body consumed by flame as was the custom for the High Elves, a tiny, sobbing, dark headed boy kneeling close beside. "We will go together," he said kindly. Legolas trusted him to keep the boy safe and Gandalf would – even if it came to saving the child from the heart wrenching grief that was coursing through inside his young spirit.

When the returning rangers saw Estel's approach, they fell into silence, eyes flickering from one to another. _You tell him. No – you._

Halbarad moved to stand beside Gandalf as Estel broke away to step closer to the ragged bunch. "They have many wounded. We would appreciate your help, Gandalf. They need healing badly."

"I will offer whatever is needed." But Gandalf's eyes were on Estel's thin frame. "Estel."

The boy did not turn so Gandalf strode forwards, grasping his shoulder tightly – to restrain and to comfort.

"Is Legolas here?" the child asked instead, his voice high and pinched with weariness. "Please – I need to see him."

A burly ranger with dark hair and kind eyes stepped forwards and stood before Estel. Gandalf did not know the man's name but he instinctively felt the goodness of this man's spirit as he talked softly to the boy.

"Legolas is not here, child." The firelight reflected off of the man's rugged, careworn features and silhouetted him sharply against the black backdrop of the long plains. "I am sorry."

"His body then," Estel's voice tripped just a little and the boy took a deep breath. "I need to see him, Conran."

"We do not have him."

"Where is he then?"

Conran's gaze shifted to Halbarad. "The Nazgúl came upon us while we fought the orcs. We were driven to a grotto where we waited a day and a night. Many of our number had been left dead on the battlefield and there were also several wounded with us in the cave. The orcs fled and only the Nazgúl remained. Then we," the man swallowed, "and then we tried to make our escape.

"They smelled us and pursued. Legolas stayed behind to hold them off while we lost ourselves in the fog. I am not – I am not sure what happened after that. But there were nine of them and he was only one…"

"You left him there?" Estel's voice sounded hoarse and brittle. "He is dead, you know. I felt him die. But you left him there." It sounded as if the boy would break and return to the catatonic state Gandalf had found him in.

A sudden impulse seized Gandalf – a push from the Valar themselves, he later told those who asked – and he stepped forwards in front of Estel. "I will go and retrieve him. Can you tell me the way?"

Conran blinked and nodded. "Do you know the Gladden River?"

Gandalf nodded and Conran outlined simple directions to the gully they had laid the ambush for the orcs at.

"He should be on the bluffs above the river if the Nazgúl haven't – if they did not…" Conran stopped and glanced at Estel, his eyes worried and mouth tight. "That is where I last saw him," he concluded somewhat lamely, one hand going up to rub his forehead as he closed his eyes for a moment. "I imagine it will take you less than hour to get there on horseback."

"Thank you." Gandalf smiled and turned Halbarad, his smile worn and reassuring. "I will return as soon as I am able to."

The man nodded in consent, his eyes dark and heavy with his grief over the lives lost. "May the Valar go with you."

Gandalf turned to Estel. "I will bring him to you, Estel. I promise."

"Let me go with you." The boy's eyes were alight with passion and a whisper of desperation. "Please. I would be quiet and good and…"

"No. Legolas will," Gandalf stopped, choking over the futuristic tense he had just used. "Legolas would never forgive me if I placed you in danger. I will return soon with him. Do not worry." And he smiled despite the rolling despair in his heart. If the Nazgúl had desecrated the body – he would not allow Estel to see that. He would not allow the boy to see his mentor's body torn apart, horribly mutilated in some sick play by the Nazgúl.

Estel lowered his gaze and Gandalf wondered if those had been tears that he had briefly glimpsed in the huge gray eyes. "Be careful." Estel continued, blinking several times in rapid succession before looking up at the wizard again. "Please – Legolas… Legolas has gone and I do not want you to go as well." He quickly dropped his head again, hand coming up to brush harshly at his face.

Gandalf touched the bowed head and the dark hair turned a burnish orange by the still glowing firelight. "Legolas loved you very much. He would not want you to grieve too long over him – he would want you to smile once again. Stay with the rangers, Estel. I will be back before the dawn with Legolas." He gave the boy a gentle shove into the warm bulk of Halbarad. "You will be safe here."

Stars twinkled joyfully in the midnight black sky as Gandalf mounted his horse and turned in the direction of Legolas. His hat sat firmly on his head and his staff was held tightly in his hand. And when he turned around to get one more glimpse of the fire, Halbarad had taken the shaking, crying boy into his arms, gently rocking him.

* * *

In Gondor, a funeral was held. White stone parapets were draped with cloths of blacks. Black ribbons were tied to the White Tree – so forlorn in its slowly withering state – and all the guards wore black around their vambraces.

A line of mourners – faces solemn and white – crowded the way to the Hall of the Kings. Their black shoes scuffed quietly against the pale cobblestones. Black roses were strewn over the road that the pallbearers would walk, carrying the bower draped in the colors of Gondor.

Above it all, Thengel, King of Rohan, looked down from the castle walls. The procession would begin in a few moments – another steward would be laid to rest next to his forefathers – another era would have slipped quietly by without the prophesied return of the king.

He turned from the window with a sigh, trying not to look too deeply into the thick shadows hanging in the room. Thengel had seen enough grief in this place to last him a lifetime.

The Stewardess of Gondor lay half-fainting in a red armchair, a black handkerchief pressed to her white face. Her eyes were green and streaked with red as she mourned the lost of her husband of eighty-five years. A maidservant stood at her side, ready with smelling salts should her mistress faint dead away.

Thengel smiled reassuringly and patted her hand as he walked by, heading towards the larger couch pressed up against one wall. "Echtellion?" he ventured, one hand outstretched in placation.

"I am here," came the quiet, raw voice from the shadows. The young man – only a few years younger than Thengel, so not too young at all – rose slowly from his reclining position. "Is it time?"

"About." Thengel stopped and clasped the smaller shoulder firmly. "How are you, my friend? Will you hold?"

"I will hold." And the young man's gray eyes were flushed over with pink and sheens of water. His lips were red – cherry red as if the young steward had been gnawing on them repeatedly throughout the course of the day. Even though his shoulders were straight and his jaw was locked, the truth was in the young man's teary eyes and slightly red nose.

Turgon, beloved Steward of Gondor, father, husband, and mentor, was dead. Gondor – and the world at large – was changing.

A heavy burden had been dropped on Echtellion's shoulders – a burden that could not be lifted through temple prayers or a few hard-won battles. Sinister forces stretched from mountains to oceans and their powers seemed unstoppable.

Thengel sighed and pulled his friend into a hug as the trumpets sounded from the courtyard. Today, they would mourn a steward's passing and tomorrow they would celebrate as another instated. And Echtellion would take the vow his fathers before him had taken.

"_I will hold my post – I will fulfill my duty – I will stand on the ramparts of Gondor as its stalwart defender – until the day of the return of the king."_

**to be continued.**


	17. Loose Rein Upon the Neck of Fate

**Disclaimer: **I own none of the recognizable characters in this story—they all belong to JRR Tolkien and New Line.

**Wherever the Surge May Sweep**

**By Jame K. **

**Chapter Sixteen: Loose Rein Upon the Neck of Fate**

_Death from the stars looks ominously down—  
Ho, ho, the dauntless riding that we dare!  
East, to the dawn, or west or south or north!  
Loose rein upon the neck of Fate—and forth!_  
– _Richard Hovey_

* * *

_So when the Witchking towered over him, Legolas did not move – did not close his eyes. He held himself still, just waiting._

Legolas lay on the damp ground – blood on his tongue and blood on his skin. It hurt – ai, Valar, it hurt! – to draw every hoarse breath. Silver mist lingered over his face, touching his eyelids and cheeks – and he could taste the odd mugginess of stale water on his parted lips.

His death was coming in creeping, stepping increments in the slow-moving mist. The Nazgúl's steady steps on the soft grass seemed to be distant and far – but they were there – and they were coming closer. He would not look, turning his cheek to the grass and closing his eyes.

If his eyes had been opened, he would have seen the black hood of the Witchking looming over him – a strange phantom drifting in an otherwise featureless world. He would have also seen – in the very corner of his dimming vision – the spluttering, yellow-orange flame of his torch lying just within the reach of his fingertips. But he did not open his eyes.

The pain had left, obscured by the floating fog. He expected the cool metal to come down – pierce his chest – pierce his pumping heart. He expected to take one breath and then slip away on a murky cloud. Very painless and very soon.

He waited – and waited – and waited. No pain – no knife slipping through his ribs – just the heavy, ominous feeling of the Nazgúl leaning over him. And then, a niggling touch assaulted his mind. The niggling turned into harsh digging and Legolas twisted his head, grass and dirt catching in his soft hair.

Blackness – evilness – the taste of death overwhelmed the elf as the Witchking stretched his mental fingers into Legolas's vulnerable, agony-weakened mind. He felt for a moment as if rotting flesh was smothering him.

Legolas forced himself to take a breath – felt the increasing level of pain and weakness – and understood. His white fingers tore up soft blades of grass. The creature of darkness was trying to find Estel. Mental walls were hastily erected around his memories of Estel – and then shoved to the very back of his mind, buried beneath a multitude of other mundane thoughts. He covered the bond with tight barriers and leveled his strength against them in an effort to hold them erect.

Agony pounded behind his eyes and shot through his temple, making his jaw lock spasmodically. But the Ringwraith plowed through his mind, scooping up memories and discarding them as broken toys.

The memories of Estel that he had hidden were unnoticed – or simply bypassed as unimportant? – and then the full strength of the beast was thrown against the bond. And the barriers were saplings in a windstorm – bending, twisting, and barely holding under the mental force of the uninjured being.

And Legolas knew the truth then. He knew that he would not be able to hold the mental barriers against the superior strength of the Witchking. Blood was slipping from his body and onto the grass at an alarming rate – mental and physical strength were flooding away with each gasping breath. The creature would rip through and reach through to Estel's tender, vulnerable – doing Valar knows what damage. The Nazgúl would find Estel and destroy Estel's mind – either turning him to the path of evil or breaking his mind beyond the power to heal. And Legolas would be dead – powerless to save or help the boy. Panic touched Legolas' soul and then he bolstered his walls against another attack.

He had to cut the bond – he had to keep the beast from ravaging and destroying the boy's bright mind – but there was no time to perform the task gently or carefully. No time – so Legolas reached in, sent a soothing impulse over the bond, a promise that Mithrandir would be there when Legolas could not – and tore the bond from his mind. And he heard Estel's scream in his mind before his thoughts were thrown deep into the maelstrom of shock – the pain of a broken bond and the creature's rage as his plans were foiled.

Legolas opened his eyes – saw the menacing creature standing above him – saw the dimming flame. Strength of will had left him – but the memory of Estel's pain sustained him. There was a reason to fight back for one more breath – a boy staying with a group of rangers an indefinable distance away.

So he reached, scrabbling his clammy fingers against damp, rough wood of the one way he could still fight. He bit his lip and blood was in his mouth as the hot pain snaked through his body.

The torch was fully grasped in his hand and he cried out in response to the overwhelming pain as the creature continued to lambaste his weakening mind, tearing through synapses and frying nerves. But the fire of the torch was still lit and he yet had the strength to pull the burning stick close to his side, absently thankful that the Ringwraith was so focused on the internal battle – so convinced that Legolas had been rendered physically incapable by his wounds – that it did not notice the external one still raging.

It was a terrible throw, he thought, just as the flaming wood left his hand. Or perhaps it had been more of a weakened lob. Sluggish and awkwardly arching, the torch sputtered through the wandering mist. Legolas wondered – with the part of his mind that was not screaming out in agony as it was plundered by the dark mind of the Witchking – If the flame would die before making contact with the black, woven robe.

He sobbed – dry tongue catching on chattering teeth – as the sparks caught hold of the dark, worn robe, snaking upwards towards the empty hole of a face. Legolas smiled and closed his eyes through tears of pain as the last of Nazgúl went up in burning flames. But he was unconscious by the time the creature's screams seared through the drifting fog – he did not see the burning beacon flee through the fog, retreating to the river and then further to Dol Goldur to bide its time.

White murkiness was around him – holding him, caressing him, taking away the pain that had been so constant in the last few moments of consciousness. He drifted away from the cold, painful reality and his shattered mind was submerged into a deep, undisturbed rest. The broken bond pulsed and throbbed as a deep puncture wound – but, where he was, the agony did not touch him.

Pleasant dreams came and went – he floated through an idyllic sea on a silver ship. Memories, the happy ones, drifted before him and he smiled in his sleep – white lips turning upwards on colorless face. He thought he heard falling rain but that did not matter – nothing mattered.

And the green grass was stained a lovely red.

* * *

The light from Gandalf's staff cast a white puddle in the post-midnight darkness around him as he moved through the thinning fog. Green grass was unusually dark – dark and soft underneath the horse's hooves. 

He knew the canyon was close. Water leaped over rocks, the sound rushing through the stillness.

When his staff illuminated the edge of the canyon, the wizard dismounted, ordering his horse to remain in one spot. Sick, hot scents of battle – smoke and rotting carcasses – hung heavy and still in the moist air. On the white, slate rock of the canyon floor, dark shapes blotted the ground, the slain casualties of the battle. The white-blue streak of the river lapped and sucked at some of the corpses, threatening to drag them all of the way to the wide sea and consigning them forever to a dark, watery grave. Gandalf grimaced and move onwards.

Threads of urgency laced through his innards – an unspeakable feeling of dread touching his mind and Gandalf quickened his stride. Blood – the stench floated with the fog. It was not the rotten smell of spoiled fluid but the fresh smell of the recently injured – the recently dying.

Darkness was vanquished by the white light as Gandalf swung the staff in a slow arc across the green field at the top of the canyon. Green grass and the bulkier, darker shrubberies and, then, a dark hump surrounded by crimson. His throat twisted – he had found what he had come for.

Moonlight broke through the fog and the pale rays wept solemnly on the stained grass. As Gandalf approached, the white face was touched by the light, a quiet star on the dark, bloody ground – blond hair still shimmering beneath the gauzy red streaks trailing from hairline to tips.

Gandalf knelt beside the body, dimly noting the crumpled pose and how the limp fingers still uselessly pressed against the oozing stomach wound – despite the death sleep that had obviously come upon the elf. The wizard's staff lay forgotten on the ground as he straightened the elf's legs from where they had been twisted and folded beneath the body, arranging the limbs comfortably on the slightly damp ground, even though Legolas was passed the pain. The smell of the Nazgúl was thick in the air and Legolas's wound oozed with the dark magic. He fumbled with his cloak, intending to draw the thick material over Legolas – a shroud to cover the dead.

Something compelled him, however to delay a moment before covering the placid face. He gazed sadly at the slightly upturned lips and wiped at a bloody smudge on one statuesque cheekbone, gently kissing his knuckle and pressing it to the smooth forehead. There was something indefinably tragic in the dead features of the immortal being. Gandalf was glad of the peaceful expression – glad the Estel's last glimpse of the brave immortal would not consist of a white face, brutally twisted in terror and pain – a body mutilated and torn asunder by the horrific ravages of evil. As his fingers ghosted down the cheek, past the lightly parted mouth, a brief hint of warm breath touched his own chilled skin.

Gandalf froze, fingers hovering just over the smiling mouth, a mere hair span from actually touching them. His blue eyes widened, his own breath stilling in his lungs and mouth drying as he waited for _something_. A wild hope clutched at him as the soft touch of air moved against his fingers once again.

"Oh, Valar – Valar…"

Legolas's neck was slightly twisted, his head drooping awkwardly off to one side – he _looked_ dead – but Gandalf still felt the weak, erratic pulse throbbing just beneath the skin of the elf's neck. He was alive – cold, pale, quiet, wounded, and alive.

Large, weathered hands flapped uselessly – eager to help but lost on what to do. He touched the face again, now feeling the slight dampness of sweat on the freezing, pale skin that he had missed before in his grief. He noticed the slight bluish tinge on the smiling lips and the quiet, puffing irregularity of Legolas's breath. It was only the miracles of the elven body that had kept Legolas alive to this point and now Gandalf feared that shock and the black poison of a morgul blade would claim the archer. Haste was of the essence.

Sweet, unnatural energy coursed through Gandalf as he looked towards where his horse had been left. At a full gallop, he could make it to the ranger's camp in a little under an hour. Too much time – but there was no other way.

When he looked down again, Legolas's mouth had moved a little, nose wrinkling infinitesimally, and the slight smile had been lost in a tiny grimace of pain and a low groan. His head shifted restlessly against the grass, dark eyelashes fluttering for a moment before falling dreadfully still once again – the breathing just a little lighter than it had been before.

The cloak that had been Legolas' funeral shroud was now a blanket as Gandalf drew the cloth tightly around Legolas, scooping him into his arms.

"We must," he said, his breath harsh and uneven to his own ears as the silence stretched around them. "We must get you home if there is to be a chance. Estel – will not want you to die."

Blond hair swung freely in the cooling air as Gandalf bustled Legolas towards where the horse was grazing. One of the elf's white hands twitched slightly and a feathery moan reached the wizard's sharp ears.

Gandalf cooed a little, fingers rubbing a little where they tightly gripped the elf. "Hush, you are all right. I have found you. You will be fine." And Gandalf tasted the bitter fluid of the lie on his tongue.

* * *

The first person Gandalf saw as he approached the ranger's camp was Estel – running towards him, breath coming in foggy pants. The wizard drew the horse to a halt, dismounting with Legolas cradled carefully in his arms.

Estel stopped a few feet away, arms wrapped around himself and eyes wide. "You have brought him." His voice was so dull – so lost – as if his youthful vigor had been ripped from him in one fell blow.

And Gandalf realized the boy still thought Legolas had perished. He opened his mouth to correct – to reveal the happy truth – but stopped. His gaze turned downwards to the white lips and closed eyes – the slowing breath and cooling skin. Should he give the boy hope now only to have it snatched away when Legolas slipped away from his world once more?

The choice was stolen from him as the elf twitched in his arms, breathing out a groan into the dark air.

A single shiver ran through the boy's limbs when he heard the small sound. He blinked once – skin whitening just a little – and then darted forwards, hands reaching to touch Legolas. "Legolas?" he laughed, fingers dancing over the white forehead and still cheekbones. "Legolas?"

Gandalf looked up from the boy's wondering face and saw the rangers coming rapidly towards them, bearing torches and grim lips. "Careful, Estel," he cautioned – making sure to infuse a gentle tone to his voice – as the boy tried to tug the elf from his arms, wanting to embrace the _alive _elf fully. "He is gravely injured."

"He is alive," Estel breathed, awe touching his eyes and voice as his fingers lingered on the weakly throbbing pulse in the elf's throat. "He is alive!" Gandalf saw the tears clump the boy's eyelashes as reality flooded the boy's mind.

"Yes, but he needs help." Gandalf began to stride towards the camp, not caring if Estel kept up with his long, quick steps. If there were any chance at all for Legolas' survival, they had to act now.

The flap of the medical tent was thrown open for Gandalf and the wizard hurried in, ignoring the blood dripping from Legolas's fingertips. "Water, bandages," he barked to the ranger standing beside him. "His wound stinks of Nazgúl poison."

The ranger nodded, darting from Gandalf's sight.

A white cot sat against the tent wall and Gandalf placed his limp burden onto the coarse sheets, positioning the elf on his side. His hand skimmed over the elf's face, feeling the light breath and the weakening immortal spirit.

"You found him." Halbarad moved to stand beside Gandalf, eyes fixed on the elf. "I sent Estel to fetch blankets from our packs. Tell me now how badly he lies."

Gandalf sighed as he carefully removed Legolas's bloodied tunic, revealing the two pussing wounds. "His injuries are severe." He paused and his voice dropped. "I have witnessed many an elf and man die from wounds less severe than these when they are made by the blades of the Nazgúl."

Halbarad watched the wizard probe the two vicious wounds in the elf's torso. A slight tremble seized his hands and he tucked them behind his back. "He looks to be lingering on the threshold of the Halls already," he noted, despondency in his voice. "Perhaps Estel should not see this."

The words settled in Gandalf's mind and he took a breath, remembering his previous thoughts and seeing the desperate hope on the face of the child. "No… no." _Estel needs to say goodbye_, he thought but he could not say it aloud. The words seem too final – too terrible to even be contemplated. He would not say the words while there was yet hope in this earth. While Legolas breathed, Gandalf would hope.

A shudder seemed to ripple through the white and red body on the bed. A breathy moan broke past the colorless lips as one hand grappled against the woolen blanket, fingers catching in the rough folds.

Brow furrowing in concern, Halbarad dropped down to Legolas's level, gently shushing as he smoothed the blond hair back from the clammy face. When he turned his face upwards to look directly at the wizard, his eyes were dark with regret and concern. "Gandalf, he is in pain. If he is to die… he should not be in pain."

Gandalf looked at the pain screwed features. "No, he should not." But he could not bring himself to move.

Cloth flapped in the wind as the door of the tent was flung open. Estel came rushing in, arms full of blankets, and followed by the lean figure of the ranger Gandalf had sent to fetch the supplies. The blankets were dropped on to the ground and the boy darted to bedside, falling to his knees.

"Is he all right?" his voice wobbled and broke even as his hand clutched at the elf's lax fingers. "Please tell me he will be well."

Gandalf opened his mouth to tell a lie.

Legolas's head twisted to one side, eyelashes fluttering rapidly against his white cheeks as if he had sensed the nearness of the child. "Estel," he murmured, his voice sounding weak and scratchy. Strangely luminous eyes sunken deeply into shadowed skin blinked open and the elf stared upwards at the boy's face. "Estel," he whispered happily, even as his mouth twisted in a grimace at the sharp pain Gandalf knew was pounding through his system.

"Legolas…" the boy choked and buried his face in the blankets near Legolas's face, clutching one vaguely trembling hand. "The bond – it is gone. I do not know what happened but it left and I could not feel you anymore." The boy's voice babbled on but Gandalf was no longer listening.

He knelt beside the elf, tucking the blanket around the chilled flesh. "Legolas," he whispered, watching as the blue eyes began to wander away from the physical world and into the phantasmal world of the dead.

The elf turned to him, pale lips moving with a breath of air. "Mithrandir."

Once again, Gandalf was struck by the strange brightness of Legolas' sunken eyes – the flare of a star before it fades into the obscurity of the night.

Legolas blinked and peered deeply into the wizard's eyes, tearing his gaze away from Estel for a few brief moments. Waning strength was in the glassy eyes and Gandalf could see resignation and resolve stitched into each breath Legolas fought for.

He knew, Gandalf realized. Legolas knew that he was slipping from this world with every passing moment. Legolas knew that he was mere breaths away from the darkness.

A pained convulsion caught Legolas for a moment and his raspy breath hitched before resuming its labored pace. The dark eyes sought out Gandalf's gaze once more and he seemed to speak without words – his eyes saying what he did not have the strength to vocalize. _Take care of Estel. He will need to be protected. Stand at his coronation where I could not. Tell him how proud I am._

Gandalf nodded in understanding and watched with weary eyes as a tender peace crept over the pain wracked feature. He turned his face away to steady his mouth and clear his eyes. "Was it the Nazgúl?" he asked when the elf when he was once again composed – he had nothing else to say and the dreadful silence hurt.

"Yes." Legolas turned his head toward Estel, closing his eyes with a tiny sigh of contentment. Gandalf could almost sense the comfort that the elf drew from the boy's mere presence – and the gentle love that Legolas exuded back toward the boy. Then his eyes snapped open again. "The rangers?" Legolas struggled for a moment, hands flailing until Estel caught them tight against his own chest. "Are they well?"

"They are." Gandalf smiled warmly and then frowned. "Are you in any pain?" _You should not be in pain, _his mind focused on Halbarad's earlier words, _if this is to be your end, you will not leave in agony._

Legolas did not answer for a moment, his burning eyes looking to Estel again. "No," he said at last and he edged closer to Estel. "I am comfortable and at peace." He smiled, soft and gentle, at the boy before his eyelids sagged. Then he jolted, eyes turning from Estel. "No herbs," he mumbled to Gandalf as if guessing the wizard's previous intentions. "I want to... be aware."

Gandalf nodded, knowing the pride of the elves would not allow Legolas to give into his own weakness – even as death hovered. And death was hovering; the old wizard imagined he could see the brave heart struggling for each beat and the gleam slowly dulling in the elf's eyes. The end would not be long in coming.

Bright blue peeked from beneath dark lashes as Legolas once again managed to fix his gaze on his Estel even as his body shivered and trembled as it prepared for the final descent into death, muscles unlocking, loosening as they prepared for their eternal rest. "Be safe," he slurred through death-numbed lips and Gandalf was not quite sure if the elf was completely aware of what he was saying. "Be well, my child."

"No…" Estel dipped his face closer to the elf's, sobbing just a little. "Legolas. Please – do not leave me."

Sadness crossed the face and Legolas's hand twitched weakly in Estel's grasp. His mouth opened as if he meant to speak – naught but a puff of air slipped through. Legolas contended himself to smile one last time, forehead wrinkling just a little in pain. The glimmering blue vanished with the pained lines and Legolas looked relaxed and calm – white and dying. He looked at peace, a beautiful creature who already dwelt in the blissful peace of the halls.

Estel gasped, plucking at the elf's pliable hands, holding the cold skin to his face. "Gandalf," the boy moaned. "He is dying."

"I am sorry." Gandalf stood and lifted his hands to his face, calluses sliding against wrinkles. "I am sorry. There is nothing I can do for him." He looked to the wound again, seeing the black and blue traces of poison. There had been so many organs pierced or lacerated by the blade of the Nazgúl – too many to ever hope to mend without the marvels of elvish medicine.

But Rivendell was a seven day ride and Lothlorien only a little closer. Legolas could never make the distance when wounded so grievously. What could he do? The fates had rendered him helpless. He looked at the white, silent face and he knew that Legolas would never awake in this realm again. Unless…

The boy started to cry – silent, hurting tears that soaked into the blankets tucked around the elf. His face was turned to the side, eyes wide open and awash with sorrow, as he watched Legolas's mouth tremble with every breath. Candlelight touched those hurting eyes, making them sparkle like silver in the sunlight.

And Gandalf knew.

This was the boy for whom Middle-earth waited – the Heir of Isildur, the Last of the Numenoreans, the Chief of the Dunedain – the _King of Arnor_.

"Halbarad," Gandalf said, mouth barely moving as he watched the child weep brokenly next to the dying elf on the white cot. His eyes were alight with a premonition straight from the Valar even as he carefully wrapped the clean cloths about the oozing wound – knowing it would do no good. "Athelas – kingsfoil. Do you have any about you?"

The man looked startled but then nodded. "What…"

"Fetch it." And the command was uncharacteristically sharp. The wizard stepped close to Estel, kneeling beside him. "Child, you must listen to me if we are to save Legolas. Can you do this?"

Estel sat up, scrubbing vigorously at his face with his hands as he nodded. "Tell me what to do." His eyes glinted with awareness and readiness even though there were smudged trails of tears across his fearful face. The determination of a king glimmered across his face.

A brief second of hesitation flickered over Gandalf's face and then he forged on. "You can save Legolas. There is a power in your blood and hands that I cannot explain to you now – but know that it _is _there."

Dried leaves were placed in Gandalf's hands as the ranger came back into the tent and the wizard briefly nodded to Halbarad before turning to Estel again. "Chew," he commanded, transferring the dried, green weeds into the slightly trembling hands of the boy. "Until they are well ground together."

The wizard did not know what he was doing. He was blindly stumbling along, hand reaching through the dark, hoping to save the dying elf. Gandalf reflected somewhat ruefully on his utter lack of knowledge on how to go about releasing the healing power he knew lay in the young boy.

_The hands of the King are the hands of a healer._

"Gandalf?" Halbarad was at his shoulder, voice low so the boy would not hear. "Kingsfoil will not help a wound such as Legolas's. Its smell may be pleasant but there are no medicinal qualities, save for soothing the sharp pain of headaches…"

Doubts threatened to cloud Gandalf's mind but he forced them aside as he watched Estel slowly chew the slightly bitter weeds. "I know," he said to Halbarad, just as softly. "But there are rumors…"

Halbarad's sharply drawn breath told the wizard that the ranger understood his cryptic words. Doubt and fear were scattered throughout his eyes – but they were interspersed with hoped and belief that maybe (just maybe) this would work.

_When the black breath blows  
And death's shadow grows  
And all lights pass,  
Come athelas! Come athelas!  
Life to the dying  
In the king's hand lying!_

But Gandalf did not speak the words aloud. He kept them within his heart as he watched the white face of the boy – part of him still dreaded that perhaps the words were just the jumbled creation of farmers' wives and drunken minstrels. "Spit them into your hand and now put them on his wound," he instructed gently as he peeled back the bandages that had been tucked about the elf's skin. "Careful now."

"Would it not be better – if perhaps you… put them there?" The boy swallowed, staring at the mushy green leaves lying soggy and limp in his palm. "Legolas has taught me about healing but I am not very good…"

"You must, Estel." The boy's hand was small in his own as he guided it to the discolored skin. When the weed had been pressed against the wound, Gandalf rewrapped the bandages and took a breath. "Estel… your bond – it is gone?"

"Ye-yes." Estel's mouth trembled and his hand came up to touch his forehead. "It snapped – I can feel the remnants – but not him." Tears threatened to well again, the pull showing starkly on the young face.

Terribly aware of Legolas's ever lightening breath and his ever paling skin, Gandalf fixed his dark blue eyes on the young boy. "Do you remember how Legolas created the bond?"

"I – he reached into my mind." Estel stopped, unsure and afraid, hands trembling. "Our minds connected… I do not know! I am mortal – I cannot!"

There was no time for comfort. Gandalf gripped him, pulling him toward Legolas's face. "You must reform the bond if he is to live. You do have the power to do that – the same power that lets you heal his fleshly wounds will let you form a bond and save his spirit from death. You must reach into his mind and bring him out of the shadows. Or – he – will – die."

Estel shuddered as if a frigid breeze had just swept over him. Gray eyes were frozen over and his mouth gaped just a little. "All right," he said with a shudder. "All right." And he seemed to gather a regal bearing around himself, staring at Gandalf with level, determined eyes though the hand that still clutched Legolas's wrist tightly trembled sporadically. "I will save him from the shadow."

"Good," Gandalf sighed and stepped back. "Lie down beside him and try to mimic what he did when he first formed the bond."

The boy did so, rigid fingers clutching Legolas's sleeve. "Legolas," he whispered, eyes closing as he turned his face toward the paling body. And his breaths evened out until he was completely still – lost in the realm of sleep.

"So we wait?" Halbarad asked, settling himself on a small stool and wringing the tips of his fingers. "There is nothing more to be done for them?"

"No." Gandalf watched the even rise and fall of the boy's chest and blue coloring of Legolas's mouth. Then he turned with some effort, tucking his hands into his voluminous cloak and sitting beside the ranger. "There is nothing more we can do for them. Estel must accomplish the rest."

For hours they waited. Dawn rose and the sun spurted through holes in the tent. Smells of rain drifted in on the breeze and water soon pattered on the canvas tent. Halbarad rebuilt the fire and made tea for them both.

Legolas was dreadfully still through the whole wait. His face laid turned to one side, mouth lax. His white fingers had curled loosely around the boy's – whether it was some reflex or a conscious reaction, Gandalf was not sure. Blood flowered on his bandages and Gandalf changed them, making sure the athelas was still tightly pressed to the dark, oozing wound.

Estel was more active in his sleep. He mumbled, tossing his head, hand tensing around Legolas's palm for a few moments before he relaxed again. A feverish pink stained his forehead and Halbarad wiped the sweat away. Now and then, he would cry out in his sleep. But his voice would seem so far away; as if he was miles from them – lost deep beneath the ground.

Finally, as the rain abated and the musty smell of wet grass rose into the air, Estel stirred. His eyelids fluttered, black lashes brushing against fever paled skin. Bright gray eyes had roamed for a moment and he had licked his lips with a dry tongue. "Legolas?" he murmured in the direction of the fire, voice hoarse and broken.

The elf lay still.

Gandalf held water to the boy's mouth, helping the exhausted boy to take a few sips. "He is yet asleep, Estel," he informed sadly, not daring to look at the peaceful elf – so serene, so quiet. Had the boy's quest failed? Was Legolas lost to them? He wanted to ask – but he feared for Estel's well being, feared the jaded shadow hanging in the once-innocent gray eyes.

"No!" The tone was childishly petulant and Estel sat up, leaning over Legolas. His forehead touched the cold one of the elf, breathing on the chilled nose. "You were following me – you promised to come back with me. Where are you?"

Halbarad stepped forward and made as if to take the boy up into his arms, but Gandalf stopped him. "Wait – just a moment."

Estel braced his smaller hands on the elf's white cheeks, grinding their foreheads together. "Come back," he urged again, tears leaking from his squeezed eyelids. "Please come back." He stopped, panting raggedly as he waited for his mentor to answer his plea. A sob shook his shoulders as the silence stretched on, unhindered by the elf. He swallowed his tears and cast a glance at Gandalf.

"Legolas," he said, voice scarcely above a pained mumble. "Return from the shadows – it is not yet your time to wander in a lightless world. I need you to come back for me. I need you so much. Come back."

And with a gasp and a harsh cough, Legolas did.

**to be continued.**


	18. My Own Shall Come to Me

**Disclaimer: **I own none of the recognizable characters in this story—they all belong to JRR Tolkien and New Line.

**Wherever the Surge May Sweep**

**By Jame K. **

**Chapter Seventeen: My Own Shall Come to Me**

_Serene I fold my hands and wait,  
Nor care for wind or tide nor sea;  
I rave no more 'gainst time or fate,  
For lo! my own shall come to me.  
- John Burroughs,__Waiting_

Time passed. Legolas recovered from the massive stab wound he had suffered that dark night. The strength began to return to his limbs and color flushed his cheeks once more. His eyes would sparkle merrily at Estel's stories of the world beyond the medical tent – much to the boy's delight – and his brows would knit together as Gandalf told him the news of the darkness creeping across Middle-earth.

However, as soon as Legolas was well on his way to health, Gandalf departed from the camp of the rangers. He bid farewell to the elf and boy on a bitter day near Solstice, warning them both to guard themselves against the growing evil. Moments after he had left, the first snows of winter began to flake down upon the wide plains.

Within the month of Gandalf's departure, the rangers with Legolas and Estel had made it to the small village that the Dunedain called their own. With the help of Halbarad, Legolas constructed a cottage on the outskirts of the town for Estel and himself – a place of peace and safety for both of them.

So the seasons came and went. The snows of winter gave way to the sprite green of spring. The warm winds of summer were vanquished by the golden leaves and falling acorns. In the village, the scent of darkness was a mere breath on the wind. Often, Legolas could almost forget that there had ever been any fear in their lives – any suffering or misgivings on a day-to-day basis.

And as the seasons slipped by, Estel grew older. His hair grew darker and longer, reaching almost to the small of his back before Legolas cut it to a more respectable length, and the nobility of his brow became more evident. His limbs lengthened and grew in strength while his eyes sharpened. His laugh was warm and his wit was sharp. The women of the village commented that he was the most polite young man they had ever met and thrust their daughters at him for his approval – much to his embarrassment. He was trained by the rangers and Legolas in warfare and tracking – and he became one of the best among them. Legolas did his best to impart the little healing knowledge he had gained from his years in Rivendell.

"Lord Elrond would have taught you better," he would always say to the boy with a wistful look, busying himself with grinding of herbs. His hands would tremble a little and he would gnaw at his lower lip. "But we will have to make do."

Sometimes, Gandalf would drop by the ranger's village, bringing books of history, science, and lore. Much to Estel's dismay, Legolas would force the growing, active boy to read these volumes.

"Why must I read this?" Estel would grouse, staring at the tiny handwritten text. "I will be a ranger – a ranger does not need to know," he would glance at the cover of the book, "Diplomatic Customs of the Haradhim."

Legolas would look up from his own reading and smile, motioning for the boy to keep reading. "Perhaps, you will travel to their deserts one day. Those customs could save or lose your life."

When reading the histories, Estel would often comment on the ineptness of the Stewards – and the failures of Isildur. "His descendant is prophesied to take the throne of Gondor – I cannot how see that could bode well for Middle-earth. To have such a weak man as the High King could lead to failure. Especially with the current darkness." He would be silent for a moment. "It truly is best that the line died out." And he never fully understood the sadness that crossed Legolas's face at those words.

The bond between elf and man grew as well. Since that day in the tent where Estel had mended the torn link, the bond had flourished and strengthened with ever passing day, growing even stronger than their first bond had ever been. Truly, the only time the world did not seem at peaceful rest was in the early winter. When the anniversary of the Nazgúl's attack approach, Legolas would find himself incapacitated with shakes and fevers. Hallucinations would come, leaving Legolas trembling with horror and dread. The skin around the barely visible scar on his torso would flare with red, frigid pain rocketing through his nerves. During those times, Estel would hold warm cloths to Legolas' stomach and cool cloths to his forehead. He would use the athelas to soothe the elf's spirit and his pain. But, a few days after the anniversary had slipped by, those things passed and life resumed a quiet, gentle pace.

But, despite the façade of peace and contentment, Legolas was dreadfully aware of each of the passing years. Sometimes – when his thoughts and emotions grew dark – his hands would be seized by tremors and his heart would hurt deep within him. The day, he knew, was coming closer. Soon, Estel would be called to fulfill his destiny. And on that day, Estel would die and Aragorn would be born. Legolas knew that he should reveal the truth to the boy – but the words would never come.

Often, he would sit with the young man in the evenings before the fire. He would watch the tanned brow crinkle in concentration over some healing technique and Legolas would open his mouth to spill the truth. But he always closed his mouth at the very last instant. Yes, Legolas would admit readily it was fear that held his tongue.

So Estel remained in a blissful state of ignorance for the totality of his transition from boy to man. No worries of kingship or the curse on his blood plagued his life in the slightest. He was content to travel with the rangers, doing his own small part to fight the darkness with every orc and goblin he killed. His eighteenth birthday soon came and, much to Legolas's dismay, he was introduced to pipe weed.

The tranquility could not last. Legolas knew this like he knew the sun would rise the next morning. Saruman knew this. Gandalf knew this. The elves knew this. The darkness was biding its time, just waiting for the right moment to strike.

For this reason, in the twentieth year of Estel's life, Legolas received a missive from Elrond, asking for the elf to attend a council in Rivendell.

* * *

There were dark tidings, the letter said. Rohan and Gondor were asking to ally with the elves against the overflow of orcs pouring from Mordor and Orthanc – rumors of the One Ring were growing by the day. Elrond said they needed to discuss _Estel_ one more time – something needed to be done, the black words reinstated, things needed to be decided before the darkness became even more powerful than it already was. Legolas _would _come to the council – Elrond would not take no for an answer.

While the words filled Legolas with dread, he could not deny the Halfelven lord's request. So as the cool spring months slowly turned to oppressive heat of summer, Legolas began to pack his bags for the trip.

Early morning breezes were wafting through the cracks in the planks when Estel awoke. Thin trails of dusty sunlight fell across the faded coverlet and a puddle of cold wax lay on the nightstand where his candle had melted down during the night.

The young man furrowed his brow, wiping slightly greasy hair from his eyes. He yawned widely, scratched the top of his head and stared at his partially ajar door. There was the sound of rustling fabric and soft footsteps against the wooden floor.

Estel stood and walked rather lethargically to the door. "Legolas?" he stepped into the common room. "What are you doing?"

Wide blue eyes darted away in guilt but then Legolas's mouth twitched just a little as his gaze turned back to the young man standing in the doorway. "Your hair," he said, gesturing to his own perfectly groomed locks as he lowered himself to sit at the table. Then he sobered and gestured with one hand. "Sit down, Estel."

Estel grunted mildly and sat down at the table across from the elf, one hand combing thickly through the tangled knot that reside atop his head. "What are you doing?" he repeated with a little more awareness as the brightness of the morning sun began to clear his sleep fog brain. "I heard nothing about you going on an expedition without me." He pointed to a knapsack sitting next to the door.

"It was sudden," Legolas shrugged and looked down at the knife he was polishing, light from a melting candle reflecting off the clean metal. "I will not be gone long – only a few weeks. It is a simple trip to the mountains…"

"You are lying." Estel leaned his chest against the smooth edge of the table. "Why are you lying?" The elf had never lied to him before – kept secrets from him, yes. But never had he lied to Estel in all the years of his life – so why was the elf so reluctant to spill the truth now?

Legolas dropped his gaze. "I am going to the mountains," he began again.

"No you are not - you are going to Rivendell. I know – I saw the name on the missive that came for you several days back." Estel's voice was mildly accusing and he wet his lips with his tongue. "You are going to Rivendell," he repeated.

Legolas paused, his eyes flickering downward to the knife and turning the worn hilt in his palm in a slightly nervous gesture. "Yes. Lord Elrond has asked me to participate in a council at Rivendell. I will not be gone long."

"A council. About me?"

There was another hesitation. "About the darkness in Middle-earth. Estel," Legolas leaned forward. "Do not worry. They will not harm me."

"Last time, I remember. They drugged you – and tried to kill me, I believe; though you have neither confirmed nor denied that notion." Estel leaned his chin on his joined hands and stared fixedly at Legolas. "Please – do not go. It can only bode ill will. We have been fine without them for many years now. Why should we once again involve ourselves with them?"

"Estel – this darkness will involve all of Middle-earth. We will not be safe here with the rangers. A day is coming when all of the races of Middle-earth will need to bind together and combat this growing evil." Legolas looked away and sadness seemed to touch the curves and grooves of his face. "They have made mistakes in the past but I must learn to accept the fact that I need their help. And I do need their help – more than you can know."

A dreadful cold had lodged itself in Estel's heard. "You have never told me why they were so certain I was going to turn to darkness. You never told me why many of the elves looked at me with fear in their eyes."

"They believe the future is solid and unchangeable. They believe that they see that future." Legolas turned his face away, gaze drifting to the world outside the window, so all Estel could see was the skin one smooth, cold cheek.

The young man bit his tongue. What was Legolas hiding? He stretched mental fingers across the bond and was jolted backwards when he felt the wall Legolas had built between them. "What? Legolas…" Estel reached out one hand and then aborted the motion a moment later, dropping his hand back to the table. "Why must you try and block me? Is there something else?"

Estel was surprised when Legolas's mouth drew into a tight line, lips turning white and thin with an indiscernible emotion. "I am still the teacher, Estel, and my secrets are my own. I am going to Rivendell and while you may disagree with my decision, you will not command me and question me at every turn."

Worry stayed in Estel's eyes but he withdrew from the elf, tucking his hands beneath his elbows and shoulders hunching towards his breastbone. "I am sorry. I just do not want to see you get hurt," he defended, bitterness creeping into his tone. He stood abruptly, thighs hitting the table and strode from the room.

The covers were strewn at the foot of his bed and he pulled them over his head in an effort to block the sunlight. Emotions seethed and swirled inside his mind and his hands clenched tightly around the rough softness of the blankets.

He could hear Legolas' soft footsteps across the floor and the sound of drawers closing. In his mind, he drew a picture of Legolas gathering supplies and weapons, preparing to leave Estel for those _elves._

Hinges creaked loudly and Estel opened his eyes, pulling back the blankets from his face. Soft light fell through the window and touched the elf's blond hair, illuminating the knit brow and worried eyes.

"Estel." Legolas's voice was very soft and gentle. "I am sorry." He crouched down next to the bed, hand resting on the mattress, and smiled, though there was a strange emotion in his eyes that Estel could not place. "I must leave soon – and I do not want to do so when you are angry with me."

He sighed faintly. "I am not angry." Making an effort to smile at the elf, Estel sat up straight against the pillows to look Legolas in the eye.

The dark irises were clouded with that indefinable emotion and Estel wondered absently what Legolas saw this time as he studied Estel's face. Often – especially as Estel grew older – Legolas's eyes would grow distant and it seemed that he would see something, _someone _else besides Estel. Perhaps Legolas was seeing the man Estel hoped he would become one day soon. Perhaps Legolas was seeing a part of his own cloudy past – a past that he never spoke about, not even to Estel.

Legolas was smiling widely (a little too widely, Estel thought), his face lighting up at the soft words. "Good – good." He paused, cheeks thinning slightly as the concern crept back into his face. "All will be well, young one. I do not mean to hurt you with my secrets – but some things are meant to be kept hidden for protection. For your protection. Do you understand?" And his eyes pleaded for Estel to say yes – to say that he did understand the reasons behind the half-truths.

"I understand." Estel nodded, leaning close to the elf and feeling the cool skin of Legolas's long fingers beneath his own hot ones. He knew the elf wanted to protect him – he knew Legolas only had his best interests in mind – Legolas would never intentionally hurt him – and he took a small amount of comfort from that knowledge. "Do not worry about me. I will be fine," he encouraged. "I am a man now."

Gray tones crept into Legolas's eyes and the sides of the elf's mouth drooped, hands tucking behind his back. "Yes – yes, you are." Legolas's cheeks strained in an uncomfortable smile that Estel did not question.

A tendril of annoyance clambered through Estel's mind as the elf stroked at his dark hair as if Estel was still a child of seven but he fiercely quelled it with a smile. "I will see you when you get home."

As the bright spring sun was hidden behind a bank of clouds, Estel stood outside, watching Legolas ride off in the direction of the mountains. A sad smile crept across the young man's face as he remembered how he reestablished the bond after Legolas had been attacked by the Nazgúl – how he had seen the elf's mind, open and unguarded for a few moments. Yes, Estel knew that the elf viewed him as a child to love and protect – just as he loved Legolas as a father.

And Estel wondered if Legolas was ashamed that he had been one of the many elves dedicated to watching over the line of the kings until they faded completely from the lands of Middle-earth. Estel wondered if Legolas believed the slow decay of the line to be his sole fault.

* * *

A spurt of wind came from the west, rattling the door knobs and hissing against the walls. The tea in Estel's cup rippled slightly as the air skipped over and Estel turned his face towards the window, looking over the cloudless plains.

"The snow in the mountains should have melted by now," he murmured to himself, observing the smudges of dark peaks against the bright sky. The thought completed in his head, _Legolas should have no trouble crossing the passes – the orcs are scarce this time of year. There should be no problems._

His gaze turned to the pale yellow liquid in his cup, breathing the slightly citrus tang. A line furrowed its way between his eyes and his mouth twisted ever so slightly. He did not want to be here – left alone in a camp full of friends – while Legolas rode into what Estel had come to think of as the den of enemies.

Another gust of wind buffeted the walls and Estel turned his head, scowling at the outside. He pursed his lips, wondering at the oddity of wind in spring, and lifted his cup to taste his still steamy tea.

When there was a loud rap at the door, Estel jerked slightly and the tea dribbled over the rim of the cup to fall down his chin and onto his chest, the liquid burning slightly as it soaked his skin. The heat jolted Estel and he set the tea cup down with a thump, spilling more tea onto the table. "Coming," he called, hands wiping at his chin and brushing ineffectually at his shirt, only succeeding in smearing the wet spot around the soft cotton material. "Coming."

Halbarad stood in the bright spring day, long hair caught in the breeze and hands stuffed into voluminous pockets. The harshness of the sunlight washed the color from his cheeks, making him appear flaccid and almost sickly, but his gaze was strong. He nodded to the young man, peering over his shoulder and into the house. "Estel – is Legolas here? There are urgent needs…"

Estel interrupted and his hand waved before Halbarad's face in a dismissive gesture. "Legolas has gone to Rivendell. Lord Elrond summoned him for a council." And Estel did not bother to keep the distaste from his voice.

"Rivendell?" Halbarad's eyes grew in size and his hands fell from his pockets. "I do not suppose he will be back soon…"

"No." Estel stepped aside and motioned for the older man to enter. "Our bond is stretched wholly over the distance or I would tell him in that manner." A niggling feeling of dread took hold of his chest but he took deep breaths and the feeling dissipated.

"That is unfortunate." Halbarad shrugged, "though I should not ask him to leave the council if Elrond summoned him." He sighed again, sitting at the table.

Estel sat as well, folding his hands beneath his chin. "What is the trouble?"

Halbarad placed his hands on his thighs, eyes drifting to the ceiling. "What do you know of the One Ring?"

"It was created by Sauron after the Vala created Middle-earth. He used to conquer Middle-earth until Isildur cut it from his hand. Isildur kept the ring. They say it is lost now though Legolas believes it will be found in the near future." Estel turned his gray eyes towards the mountains again. "Though 'in the near future' may mean many different things to an elf," Estel smiled fondly, his fingers tracing the grooves of the table, "he could be referring to next week or the next century."

Halbarad's lips quirked slightly, as if he was trying to force a smile to come when none could be found within him. "Gandalf sends word – he believes that he has found the location of the Ring."

Estel's mouth dropped slightly, his hands slapping the table as his muscles tightened his surprise. "What?"

"He is in the Shire. He says a hobbit has come into possession of the object." Halbarad shook his head, amazement flitting through his eyes as he rested his chin on his hands. "A hobbit – of all creatures." He shot a querulous glance at Estel. "You do know what a hobbit is, do you not?"

"I have never seen one – but Legolas has told me their tales." Estel took a sip of his tea and reigned in the surprise he felt at Halbarad's announcement. "Why does this concern Legolas?"

"Gandalf needs help in keeping the Ring and its bearer safe for the journey to Rivendell. He has asked us to send a contingent to meet him in the Misty Mountains – I had wanted him to lead the mission – he has friendlier relations than most with Gandalf. I believe that he knows him better than most of the inhabitants of Middle-earth combined. And, besides that, the men trust him implicitly." Halbarad shrugged. "There are other men besides Legolas who would be great leaders– but I had preferred him. But, perhaps Eru intended it not to be this time." He stood and gripped the back of the chair, preparing to leave.

Estel took a breath – and he knew what he had to do. "I could lead the mission." The words felt so right, as if he had been meant to say them since the beginning of time. And, remembering Legolas's teachings on the everlasting, all-knowing will of Ilúvatar, Estel probably _had_been meant to go on this mission since the beginning of time.

"You?" Halbarad's eyebrows rose.

"Legolas has trained me all my life – and Gandalf knows and trusts me. The men like and respect me. Please – let me go." Estel leaned forward, tea left forgotten by his elbow. "I am a good leader – I can do this."

Halbarad stopped, sat back down in his chair, and chewed his lip. "I know you are Estel. But, Legolas…"

"Legolas trusts me. He knows I am a man now. I have been on hunting parties without him." He had to go on this trip – even if it meant begging. Estel felt as if his destiny was waiting in the Misty Mountains with Gandalf – he had to go.

The older ranger studied him, eyes sharpening slightly. His brow wrinkled and he cocked his head to one side. "You badly wish to go."

"Yes." Estel leaned forward eagerly, the sun shining through the window to touch his dark hair. "Please. If not as a leader, I would wish to go with you as just another ranger."

And, despite his misgivings, Halbarad agreed.

* * *

**to be continued.  
**

* * *

* * *


	19. Still, My Soul!

**Disclaimer: **I own none of the recognizable characters in this story—they all belong to JRR Tolkien and New Line.

**Wherever the Surge May Sweep**

**By Jame K. **

_**Chapter Eighteen: Still, My Soul!**_

_All is not well.  
I doubt some foul play. Would the night were come!  
Till then sit still, my soul. Foul deeds will rise,  
Though all the earth o'erwhelm them, to men's eyes._  
_ – William Shakespeare_

Despite the icy, clenching hold seizing his insides, Legolas appeared to be remarkably serene as he rode through the gates of the elven settlement. Flickering pain disturbed the calmness of his eyes momentarily when he glimpsed a certain balcony, laboring under a multitude of bright green vines – his room; but the pain was swept away and locked into a tight chest, deep within his mind. He glanced down at his right side, moving the fringes of his cloak surreptitiously to cover the flecks of crimson dyeing his inner garments and hasty bandages.

He dismounted his horse at the steps leading up to the arching pillars and doors of the Last Homely House. Dappled sunlight danced across the white flowers, hanging horn-like from towering trellises; their scent wafted down to Legolas with the breeze. Memories – warm memories of days and seasons of healing and laughter – came with the rolling tide of scents and Legolas sighed as his muscles loosened, tendons slowly easing into a liquid comfort, even as the pain in his side worsened with his long breaths.

"Your majesty." A grave elf with elegant gray robes and an unsmiling mouth tilted his head to Legolas, hands fluttering about his waist in an eagerness to do _something_. "Allow me to take your horse. Lord Elrond is awaiting your presence in the study. Would you like me to call a guide?"

"No – I still know the way." He turned his head, smiling – though his lips felt strained as he pulled them out of a pained grimace. Then, his eyes widened and he stepped backward, forgetting his wound momentarily. "Long has it been since dwarves and men walked freely within the gates of Rivendell," he breathed, eyes darting between the stout, bearded dwarf and the more lanky figure of the man.

The elf nodded gravely, hands tucking about the reins of the horse. "Dark times have swept the whole land, my king. Lord Elrond has summoned all races together for this council." He bowed his head again before taking his leave with Legolas's horse.

Impulse flooded the elf's mind momentarily and he briefly considered chasing after the dwarf and the man, talking to them, and learning about them. What an exciting adventure that would be! Legolas had not spoken to the dwarves since his childhood – before the fall of the Northern Kingdom – before the dealings between elves and dwarves had become strained and unfriendly.

He sighed, restraining the urge as he walked up the gray steps in the direction of Lord Elrond's study. The toils of labor must come before Legolas could even think to amuse himself in another fashion; he would meet with the elf-lord and then retreat to his own chambers (or wherever Lord Elrond would be kind enough to grant him a bed) to treat his own wounds once more. Legolas did not think that the injury was especially grave – he had dealt with worse many a time – but a strange weariness had seized him since the four orcs had ambushed him two nights before.

Another pained grimace came to his lips and he pressed one white hand to the wound, feeling the slight bit of unnatural heat. Yes, meeting with Lord Elrond and then new bandages and a healing slumber before he could allow himself to chase after these two strange creatures inhabiting Imladris.

But, he did allow himself one glance behind, chuckling to himself as he imagined what his father would say if he realized his son wished to spend time with a _dwarf _and a man. _A_ _dwarf!_

Legolas chuckled again as he handed his weapons to the lovely elf just inside the foyer of Elrond's home. Even despite his injury, a strange lightness seized him as he viewed the yet unblemished beauty of Imladris. The darkness seemed so far away – so weak and insignificant – here in this gorgeous, bright place.

He felt his joyous mood dimming, however, as he stepped carefully through the richly furnished hallways. Light spilled passed ornate curtains and flowers seemed to bloom happily on the sill of every window – but Legolas noticed none of the finery. His eyes darkened, his mouth drooped downwards, and his natural luminescence dimming to a faint glimmer. A tiny tremble seized his hands and he tucked them against his sides, feeling his wound pull and tear with every drawn breath.

And then, the study door was before him – large, ominous, and dark. But, despite the sickening sense of foreboding that rose up along the back of his throat, Legolas found himself strangely comforted by the brass handle and solid wood.

He remembered – Legolas breathed, hand touching the carved wood and tracing over the curved brass – he remembered only vaguely the days after Greenwood's destruction and the days before his father's funeral.

He had been laid in a soft bed, silky cushions beneath his head and warm, heavy covers against his chest. He had drifted and mumbled, scented herbs waving beneath his nose and thick medicines being poured passed his numb lips, as he called for his father. The time after that – when he had awoken from his dreams and faced a reality that did not include his father or his country – Elrond had been in his mentor, the soft hand that had forced him to eat when food was abhorrent, the tender voice that had told him that he did not really want to die, and the gentle arms that had held him close while he sobbed. How had his path parted so drastically from the half elf's path?

Tears almost came – they lingered dreadfully, stinging the backs of his eyes and drying his tongue and throat – but he entered the study dry eyed after a short knock. "Lord Elrond," he greeted when he saw the stately figure at the desk.

The half elf stood, hands braced on the dark wood of the desk and bowed his head slightly. "Your majesty." The tone was chill and the magic warmness of Rivendell slipped away into the huge sky.

Trembles seized his lips but Legolas forced a smile though the motion felt ugly and twisted. He wanted forgiveness – he wanted to be accepted into the warmth of a home once more – he wanted someone to teach him again. The pain in his side grew and throbbed, encompassing his thoughts; and all he wanted was for the older elf to soothe the continuous ache away. But, the old bitterness clung to the vestiges of a worn heart; the memories of a silvery vial of liquid and an attempt to silence the bright light that was Estel. So, when his mouth moved, tongue scraping against smooth teeth, all that came out was, "I am Legolas, my lord."

Ever so slightly, the severity of Elrond's face eased into something gentler – more welcoming, perhaps? "Please, take a seat, Legolas. It has been long since we heard your voice or seen your face in these halls. It has been quieter here – and much less thrilling."

"Thrilling?" Legolas asked, sitting on the edge of his chair, hands resting lightly on his knees. The familiar banter soothed his parched mind – just as the sight of Elrond sent alarm zinging through his mind.

"Yes. I am afraid the twins are much less creative in their schemes since your departure. I suppose it gives me cause to wonder just how much you really were a part of their little escapades." Lord Elrond was smiling openly, eyes faintly pleading for Legolas to accept the tentative truce he was extending.

Legolas smiled, tight-lipped – more to keep pained groans from spilling outwards than to appear passive before the scrutinizing gaze. "You could have hardly punished a king," he murmured, mouth barely moving with the words. His gaze turned to the window, the blue sky and bright flowers.

Elrond's laugh was tinny. "I suppose not. I wondered…" he sat forward, hands flat on the desk and face wide and earnest, "how Estel was? He must be a young man now – an adult by mortal standards."

"Yes, he is a man." Fondness laced Legolas's tone but his eyes were cold and wary. "He is an apt fighter – an enemy would have a difficult time setting hold to him now. I have seen to that." Too many memories, he wanted to say. Too many lies, deceits, and plans lay glaring in between him and the older elf. Too many. One hand crept unnoticed to his side and he pressed against the layers of cloth, feeling the wetness blossoming across his clothes.

Elrond did not move, frozen by the vaguely accusatory words. He cleared his throat, hands coming up to adjust a piece of his robe before he turned his head to the window, face utterly still.

Legolas knew that Elrond did not see the chasm between them – he could not see. Doubt, darkness and despair (and perhaps a bit of foolish hope that Legolas would forgo the _ridiculous notion _of raising Estel as his own) had clouded his vision and his soul. He could not see the wrongness lingering in the air between them just as he could not see the truth of Estel – the nearness, the realness of Hope. But it was not his fault.

Elrond's smile was pleasant as he faced Legolas again. "Tell me of your adventures with the rangers. I am afraid that I had to dissuade the twins from riding out to join you many times. They thought the whole thing to be much like an adventure in one of the old tales and they were quite eager to come upon it."

The pain of a knife wound to the belly came to Legolas again and one of his white hands rose to touch the smooth, unblemished skin, remembering. A sharp pang in his side reminded of him his latest acquired wound. "It is not adventure," he said at last. "The death of immortals or mortals will never be an adventure."

He stood abruptly as he felt warm blood touch the top of his thighs, tracing down the contours of his leg. "I need to rest," he said, slightly surprised when his voice faltered on the simple words.

"Of course." Concern was in Elrond's eyes now and Legolas turned away. "Your old rooms are prepared for you. You… do not seem yourself."

"I am – fine." Legolas's mouth curved in a breathless, forced smile. "Fine." He stepped toward the door, hand pressed to his side. A strange choking sensation rose up in his throat and he leaned forward, hacking in his hand.

Elrond's hands touched his hot face. "Legolas, what is wrong?"

Legolas batted the hands away, standing and breathing. He opened his mouth to reassert that he was _fine_ but a moan broke passed his lips instead and he toppled into Elrond's strong arms.

* * *

White-yellow sunlight pooled across the brownish green foothills of the misty mountains. Billowy clouds surrounded the taller hills and filtered the sunlight, hiding the bright sky from view. Some places, the clouds divided and light streamed down to create a haze of brightness in otherwise dim landscape. In one of these puddles of light, a tall figure in gray – a figure Estel immediately recognized Gandalf – and a small child-like creature stood together.

The tiny fellow besides Gandalf was twitching nervously, wringing his hands and fairly burying his face in the wizard's long robes. At the approach of the ragged men, his Adam's apple bobbed and he muttered, "Oh, dear," to himself continually.

Halbarad stepped forward and bowed his head. "Gandalf. We have come with all haste at your bidding."

"Good – good. I do thank you for your promptness." The wizard glanced over the group and Estel could almost sense it when the wizard's eyes came to rest directly upon him.

Straightening his shoulders just a little, Estel stepped up to the pair and inclined his upper body respectfully. "_Mae govenann,_ Mithrandir." He wondered, as he titled his had to look the ancient wizard directly in the eye, if his steady hand, resting upon the hilt of his sword, made him appear more grown up and mature.

Gandalf's smile was wide and benevolent as he looked down at the slightly dirty man, scarcely looking at Estel's hand or sword. "Estel," he greeted, "I did not expect you to be a part of this little expedition – I was thinking that Legolas would be the one to come and lead the party."

Estel swallowed and hid the harsh sting the comment brought as he removed his hand from the hilt. "Legolas is attending a council at Rivendell."

"Is he now?" Gandalf stroked his chin, eyes thoughtful – but Estel thought he detected a darker undercurrent in the solemn tone.

"Yes." Estel stumbled over his tongue for a moment, hands rubbing against the sides of his legs. "Halbarad thought I was an appropriate choice to represent him on this mission." But he did not have the nerve to meet the wizard's all-knowing gaze.

"Hmm."

Halbarad stepped forward and rested a comforting had on Estel's shoulder. "He has a good sword arm and Legolas has trained him ceaselessly on archery. He is an excellent fighter and he has a stout heart."

Gandalf nodded again. "I have no doubt." But the corners of his mouth turned downward despite his words.

Estel could feel the deep blue eyes resting upon his bowed head and his face twisted in a wince as if he had just eaten a particularly sour fruit. He took a deep breath. Legolas had always taught that humility worked where bravado did not. "You, of course," he said, "have the final say on who participates in such an important possession. If you would feel it would be better for me to return to the Gladden River while the rest of the men go onward, I will bow to your wisdom."

For the space of a breath, Estel was afraid that Gandalf would do just that as the wizard's eyes slowly perused the men standing behind Estel.

"No – I think you will do." Gandalf's expression was vaguely amused as he studied Estel. "Legolas trusts you and I do believe that this expedition will prove your mentor's trust." He leaned close, his beard brushing Estel's shoulder and his breath tickling his ear. "Do not give him cause to be disappointed in you."

Estel opened his mouth to assert that he would never betray Legolas – _never_ – but Gandalf had stepped back and was gesturing to the nervous creature beside him, tiny hands deep within the pockets of his miniature, scarlet overcoat.

"This," he laid a hand on the trembling shoulder, "is Mr. Bilbo Baggins, one of the Shire folk – do you know of them?"

Halbarad nodded his head. "A little. Although I must say that I have never seen one with my own eyes."

"I know them only from Legolas' stories." And Estel had supposed the halflings to be mere myths, exaggerations of truth. Awe made him step forward, coming to stand directly before the curly-headed figure. "Master Baggins," he intoned gravely, tipping his head. "Any friend of Gandalf's is a friend of mine."

Dimples formed deep grooves in the hobbit's apple cheeks and he proffered one elegantly tiny hand which Estel took carefully his much larger and dirtier paw. "Oh, oh, I assure you. The pleasure is mine. My goodness." His eyes were wide and round. "So many big-folk. I do declare there has not been this many since before my old gaffer was a wee one and that was some many years ago I assure you, Master…" he trailed off, still smiling, and looked expectantly up at Estel.

"Estel."

"Yes, Master Estel. The honor is all mine." The hobbit ground to a halt and looked up at Gandalf. "I am afraid I have gotten myself into a wee spot of trouble and Gandalf assures me that you are just the folks to take care of it."

The wizard nodded. "Bilbo has come into possession of a certain object of great importance. Halbarad, I told you some of the news."

Eyes darkening, the older ranger nodded. "It is confirmed then?"

Bilbo shrank into a huddled ball against Gandalf's side as the wizard nodded gravely. "It has been confirmed."

* * *

He dreamed of pain – of Estel crying out in agony, blood on his face. He dreamed of betrayal – Estel glaring at him, accusing bitterly.

"You lied to me," the young man screamed as he stood next to Saruman. "You are no longer my friend." The ring glittered on his finger. "I will make you suffer for what have you done."

In the dream, Legolas wondered could make him hurt more than receiving the hatred of his child. He twisted his hands, reaching, pleading for Estel to_just understand._ But the young man just shook his head and left.

Then Legolas was standing in a long plain and Estel was there, face twisted and hands trembling as they clenched in agony. "Legolas," he cried, "Legolas, please." Blood rolled down his back and dripped through his teeth. "Legolas!"

And Legolas could do nothing, the dreamscape holding him back as he attempted to take the young man's shaking hands, to take the pain.

He twisted and awoke, panting as he pressed his head to his pillow. The gilded ceiling of Rivendell drifted above and Legolas felt the tension drain as he knew it was just a _dream_ – not the gift of Lórien, just a _dream_. He swallowed once, blew out a breath and forced himself to ease back against the soft bed.

Elladan was there – just in the corner of Legolas's vision. His hands were folded neatly in front of him. He was speaking to Erestor about the plans for the meal that night just outside of the door of the healing wing; but he had eyes for Legolas only. The conversation would end soon, Legolas knew, and the twin would cross to stand in front of the bed that Legolas had been confined to after he had collapsed in the study.

A faint grimace touched the young king's face as he remembered the scene he had created with his wound. He had awoken moments after falling into Elrond's arms, highly embarrassed and highly conscious of the blood dribbling from his side to the floor of the study. He had tried to move away but Elrond's hands had caught him just under his arm pits, holding him to his chest.

"Why did you not tell me you were injured?" Elrond had hissed, his hands touching the blood. "I would not have kept you in the study. You should be in the healer's wing resting."

"Not bad." Legolas had looked down at his side and grimaced. "Small wound. Got it a few days ago – should be healed by now."

"Even more reason to be concerned." And Elrond had scooped the protesting king into his arms, carrying him from the study and to the healing wings. By the time the sun had set, the wound had been proclaimed poisoned, the antidote had been administered, and the king had been given a sleeping draught for the night.

The next morning, Legolas had awoken, bleary eyed and slightly muddled, to find himself tucked into this wide bed with fresh bandages wrapped around his torso and a bowl of warm food sitting beside him.

A small noise drew Legolas from his musings and he raised his eyes to see Elladan moving into the room to stand silently beside the bed, hands tucked behind his back as he observed the pale, blond elf.

Legolas looked up from the white sheets and wished he could claim tiredness or pain to forestall this conversation. But the sorrow radiating from the older elf held his tongue. "My friend," he greeted mildly, eyes darting away for a brief moment. "You are… taller," he finished lamely and patted the soft bed beside him.

The dark haired elf touched Legolas's shoulder as he sat on the healer's bed. "I am glad to see you well. When you fled from Lothlorien, you did not seem… and then there was no news of you or the boy for months. I did not know if you were alive or dead. And then you come here, and I learn that you collapse in Ada's study within minutes of your arrival. A knife wound to your side – you are luck the poison was not serious or you could be dead now. You are still pale." He reached out one hand, fingers skimming along Legolas's cheek before they withdrew.

"I am alive." Legolas' smile faded and he ducked his head. "I should have sent word to you before now. I am sorry for worrying you, my friend. I have not been a proper companion to you these last years."

When Elladan did not immediately answer the soft words, strain touched Legolas's eyes and he leaned back against the covers, turning his face away. A steady ache flowed through Legolas's muscles – had another friend been lost in the name of the will of Ilúvatar, in the name of Destiny? Was he destined to be alone on this hard path?

But the other elf caught him about the shoulders, squeezing the softness of the nightgown against his skin. "There is nothing to forgive, _mellon nin_. Nothing. You followed the will of the Valar – and I cannot fault you for that."

The soft cloth of Elladan's robe brushed against Legolas's forehead and he fisted his hands against his thighs, bitter scents of herbs assaulting his senses as he inhaled deeply against his friend's shoulder. "Thank you."

Elladan sat back and gently lowered Legolas back to the pillows, smiling just a little. "Elrohir and I… we have spoken of following the rangers with you. Father manages well here in Imladris; and we long to sharpen our swords against the hordes of darkness once more. Perhaps, when you leave again…"

"You should stay here." Legolas took a deep breath and plunged ahead before the flash of hurt in Elladan's eyes could stop him. "Soon, our races will band together and I will return with Estel. You should be here – with your father."

"But we want…"

"Your fate is laid before your eyes, my friend, even now you know where your destiny is to remain. Your heart is stayed on the beauty of this place – I do not believe you would be fully content any where else, save Valinor." Legolas's hand went to his stomach again, shivering as he felt the cold ache where freezing metal had once pierced his flesh – the wound of a Nazgúl would never fully heal.

Another shiver wracked his long gingers as a gray cloud seemed to pass before the green eyes of the dark-haired elf. Elladan's mouth compressed and his fingers dug painfully into Legolas's wrists. "There are some things more beautiful than even Imladris. I should be with you – to protect you." he hissed. Then his grip loosened and his gaze drifted beyond Legolas. "The festivities are tonight," he intoned, "you will not want to miss them."

Legolas shook his head, drawing his hands close to his waist and clutching the soft blankets around his sides. "No – it has been long since I have attended an elven feast. My wound is all but healed, only a twinge remains."

"All the best of foods, all the best of wines," Elladan grimaced and his eyes roamed back to Legolas's face. "I will see you tonight, then? I am sure there are other things that need your attention now." His robes swished about his knees as he beat a hasty retreat towards the vacant door of the healing rooms.

"Yes." Legolas murmured before he had fully vanished. "There are many things to be done." And he watched his friend go with saddened eyes.

* * *

"I assure you that I was quite the sedentary hobbit until Gandalf came along. We, hobbits, are quite content to stay in our own shire and live out our lives in our own little hovel. Quite a stir was caused when Gandalf first arrived. Small folks are generally distrustful of you big folk." Bilbo paused for a breath as he struggled over some rocks, clinging tightly to Estel's helping hand as they walked among the rangers towards the far off place of Rivendell. "Thank you."

Estel smiled and nodded, his eyes drifting from the curly head of the hobbit to the rich greens broken only by white rocks surrounding them and the brilliant sky above them, stretching from horizon to horizon.

"Never been out of the Shire until now," Bilbo continued, tiny hands flapping in the spring air. "And now, here I am, traveling with big folks and a wizard to heaven knows where. Quite the stir, I assure you. Say," his little round eyes grew even rounder. "Do you think I could meet the elves in this place? I have always wanted to meet one of those. Have you ever met one?"

"I was raised by one." Estel glanced down at the eager face and was mildly amused at the way the sun made funny shadows on the white forehead, glistening through the floppy, brown curls. He wondered if all the halflings were quite as curious and _talkative_ as this one was. "But I can not speak for the rest of their kind."

"Why ever not?"

"Legolas – the elf I was raised by – did not talk much of his life with them and the dealings that I have had with other elves have not always been pleasant." A familiar anxiety rose up in his heart as he thought of Legolas in Rivendell without him. He made himself focus on the rich, crisp air burning through his lungs and the bright sun causing his eyes to water.

Bilbo's face was turned innocently upward, light brown curls tumbling about his round face. "And why did an elf raise you?"

"My mother died when I was very young." Estel's brow furrowed slightly, eyes clouding at the lack of memories of the one who bore him. "I really do not know – Legolas does not speak of those times and when I asked, he grew sad. Eventually," he shrugged a little, "I stopped asking. It does not matter much. Legolas has given me love and a good life. I cannot wish for more."

Bilbo nodded. "My own gaffer died when I was a wee lad. Dreadful boating accident – only have the tiniest bits of memory about him now – mostly of him telling stories." He sighed with only a hint of melancholy. "There's nothing like a hobbit who can spin a good tale."

Estel's charcoal lashes covered his gray eyes briefly at his own memory. "Legolas was like that – he had lived for _ages_. I suppose I do not really know how long he walked this earth before I was born – but his stories…" Estel smiled to himself. "He spoke of Gondor, before the line of Kings faded from Middle-earth; of the elves, before the ring bearers were forced to keep their rings in secrecy."

"Us, Shire-folk, speak often of when days were peaceful. Some of the old folk still swear by the return of the king." Bilbo chuckled as his short legs carried him up the ridge of yet another grassy hill.

The words played against a chord deep within Estel's being, resonating through his lungs and heart; and the world darkened before him. "The king will not come. The line is weak – useless. His descendants are like him; it is good that they died out many years ago."

But Bilbo did notice the bitterness twisting the words. He nodded merrily. "Oh, perhaps not. But, it is a catchy phrase. Almost like a song. Shire-folk are very fond of the occasional song – limerick – ballad. It matters not to us as long is there a merry beat to which we can stomp our feet." With a glad cry, he began to sing of bright campfires and blue rivers – all the things lovely in the world.

The breeze touched Estel's face, the hot skin of his neck. He blinked and the world began to brighten before his eyes as Bilbo's song rose around him. It was not the delicate beauty of Legolas' songs – immortal love and endless courage; but it was the rich hardiness and the crude, unfinished matter that lined nature – a raw loveliness that permeated the very air that Estel breathed.

Dirt covered rangers grinned and joked among themselves, feeling the brightness of the day rather than the shadow of tomorrow. They jabbed each other's sides and pointed to the sky. _Have you never seen such a clear sky? Remarkable._

Estel smiled and wished they could travel faster – wished Rivendell was not another four day march ahead – so he could share with Legolas the joy of being alive.

**To be continued.**


	20. The Quiet Sense

**Disclaimer: **I own none of the recognizable characters in this story—they all belong to JRR Tolkien and New Line.

**Wherever the Surge May Sweep**

**By Jame K. **

_**Chapter Nineteen: The Quiet Sense**_

_But over all things brooding slept  
The quiet sense of something lost.  
- Lord Alfred Tennyson_

A somber gloom had crept over the land with the setting of the sun. The last of the dull orange rays reflected off of cold rocks and turned the grass a sickly blacked. White blue sky extended behind Weathertop, the darkness of the hills standing out in stark contrast.

Estel was afraid. He rubbed his stomach and felt the cold knot of fear tighten as the darkness seeped over the land. Something was coming – something was… "Mithrandir," he said at last, sitting beside the old wizard. "There is a… foul breath on the air. My very blood seems to shiver at…"

"It is Saruman." A gray trail of smoke rose into the cool air, vanishing on a noiseless breeze. "He has been haunting our footsteps – I fear the Ringwraiths draw closer with the hour."

"The Ringwraiths." Estel dropped his eyes and remembered the snap of the bond – and reached out to feel Legolas's warmth. The miles between kept them from sharing words, but he could still sense the wellness of the elf. "Should we not be moving, then? If they haunt us…"

"Woods and then long plains stretch between here and Rivendell. We would never make it in time. And I do not want to be caught in the forest at the dead of night. No – it is best that we remain here." He waved his pipe, indicating the circle of fire stretching around Weathertop. "This is as safe as we will be."

Estel nodded; but his gut clenched and his eyes turned to the darkening hills. "They will come from the West," he murmured to himself. "They will come and there will be no warning."

Gandalf turned, eyes vaguely appraising. "What?"

The young man turned, his mouth drooping sadly as his gaze drifted passed the wizard to the unknown void. "We can do nothing to prevent it. Take your rest, Mithrandir. The night will be long." Estel moved away – his mind troubled and confused. He felt – doomed; like he had stepped onto a path that he could no longer stray from. His course had been set and the wheel was taken from his hands.

Halbarad nodded to him as Estel passed by one of the fires. His eyes were kind and welcoming as he gestured to a spot beside him – but Estel declined.

He found Bilbo sitting against the stone ledge, wooden pipe in one hand and an apple in the other. "Come to join the festivities?" the tiny hobbit crowed, lifting the pipe. "On a night like this in the Shire, we would be in the tavern – drinking the ale and singing the songs. Lusty old songs."

"Are you frightened?" Estel asked suddenly, sitting beside him and bowing his head. "The task is heavy."

A somber expression darkened the hobbit's eyes and the apple was set down. "I suppose – I feel the weight." And Estel noticed the tiny hand pressing against one pocket, the thumb moving in circles against the stiff material. "I would like to keep it, I think. But I know that I cannot. It is too strong – too strong for a little hobbit like me." He chuckled and seemed to yank his hand away from the pocket, slipping his hands beneath his thighs. "There is much to be afraid of – but my feet set me on this path and I will stick to it." He paused, curly head bobbing in thought.

"There is a tune," he started again as the fire crackled-hissed behind him. "The old folks hum it when they're walking down the meadow lanes of the Shire. They call it a _walking_ song. Quite appropriate." He hummed a few lines, almost to himself, before gently sounding the words across his tongue. "Home is behind, the world ahead, and there are many paths to tread…" his voice trailed away before he continued in a conversational tone, "we'll wander back home and to bed."

Estel watched the sky and heard the words, feeling their meaning resound deep within his spirit – a deep bell ringing on a clear day. "The hobbits," he said at last, quietly, "are quite deep despite their jovial exterior."

"Layers," reported Bilbo cheerfully, "layers upon layers."

A shiver of static ran down Estel's back. He spun, looking over the darkening plains, just as the heavy sound of horses touched his ears. "Mithrandir?" he reached for Bilbo, tugging the hobbit closer to his side. Estel imagined he could smell death – the scent of the black riders.

The wizard had stood, holding his hand above his eyes. "They come," he murmured – his voice rough and pained – and his knuckles whitened around his staff. "Our time is no more – the Nazgúl are here."

Cold air hissed passed Estel's teeth and in three steps, he was beside Gandalf, looking over the plains. Knots tightened deep inside of him, the fear clawing up his throat. His arms wrapped his middle and he instinctively retreated towards the warmth of Legolas's bright presence.

The Nine were there – riding across the plains on huge horses. And behind them, creeping over the hills as black parasites, were the orcs. Gray metal flashed in their midst when starlight peeked through the clouds. There were too many – too many to fight – too many to retreat.

"We are going to die," he said, breathing the words and shivering just a little. "Mithrandir..."

The wizard did not answer and shifted his gaze past the young man's shoulder. Estel turned and saw Halbarad just behind him, mouth stiff and somber.

"Estel, take Bilbo and go." Halbarad gripped his shoulder, fairly pulling Estel along. "Go to the East, towards the Last Bridge and the Mitheithel River. The elves will meet you there and take you to safety. Speed is of the essence."

"I do not…" Estel looked to the rangers around him, pulling swords and bows, preparing to meet the enemies. _I do not understand why I am the one to go. There are those younger than me…_

Halbarad glanced over his shoulder, looking toward the plains. "I know you do not understand. But Bilbo – the Ring – _you_ – must survive. Those here," he nodded to the darkly clad rangers and leaned closer, voice dropping to a whisper, "will gladly die to preserve the future of Middle-earth – to keep Bilbo and you from falling into the hands of the enemy. Mark my words, they will take you alive if you are caught and you will fall to a fate worse than death." He shoved Bilbo into him and gestured to the forests in the direction of Rivendell. "Go!"

Estel stepped backwards, instinctively grasping Bilbo's arm. Behind Halbarad, he could see the orange glow of the fires; and beyond that, dark figures and the film of death over a once peaceful landscape.

The older ranger softened for a moment. "Go to Legolas – may the Valar keep you safe." He turned and strode back to the ring of fire, his sword sliding against the sheath as he drew the weapon.

A rush of hot air streamed across Estel's face as more logs were thrown onto one of the fires, sparks flying in the dark air. The softness of his mouth turned hard and stiff and Estel seemed to come to a decision.

The young man swallowed and gripped Bilbo's shoulder. "You must stay quiet." He backpedaled into the clinging shadows. Each step he made tore something deep and vital inside of him – abandoning, he his comrades when the need was greatest seemed to go against all he had been taught. Finally, he garnered the determination to turn his back on the burning circle.

"We are alone," he whispered to Bilbo and himself. "Can you run?" he asked after a moment. "I do not put as much distance between the orcs as we can before sunrise. Perhaps they will pursue you…" He stopped and looked behind them once more. "We must hurry."

Bilbo nodded but did not say a word.

They ran. And when Bilbo's smaller legs finally failed him, Estel scooped him to his arms and carried him. The trees were sparse in the country side surrounding the Weather Hills and Estel found himself darting from rock to rock, glancing behind him at the dark shapes overrunning the fiery pinnacle of Weathertop.

They were still on the plains when Estel watched the sun rise, red and sickly. Their steps had slowed to a fast walk, Bilbo stumbling behind the faster strides of the young ranger. As the red light spilled across the yellow plains, Estel tucked them both into a niche of pale, sandy rock.

"We must rest," he said to Bilbo's huffing query. "Or we will collapse in the open. We should be safe for a few moments. Rest – I will keep watch." He passed one hand over the hobbit's face and watched as the soft features eased and drooped as sleep came quickly upon them. Then he put one hand on the hilt of his sword and settled back against the hard rock; and, despite his best intentions, he was asleep within moments.

He awoke when the sky was dark blue and the sun was shining brightly down on the rocks, heating their hiding place. He awoke abruptly – and he heard gruff voices speaking loudly to each other. Orcs. Why did they travel in daylight?

Estel sucked in a breath and tried to imagine the duress which would have caused these orcs to venture from their hidden, dark crags while the sun was so bright. No matter – they would be weaker, easier to kill.

Bilbo stirred, turning his face into Estel's chest.

His rough fingers carded through the soft curls as he pressed the hobbit's soft face against his chest. The orcs would smell them. He imagined their noses turned to the wind and their beady eyes finding their hiding place.

"Do not speak," he murmured. "Do not move." And as he moved his mouth, taut, dirty skin pulled uncomfortably.

"Orcs." Bilbo's mouth barely moved against the leather jerkin. His cotton shirt rubbed the ranger's damp skin as he shuddered. "They will find us."

Thick, cloistered breath filled Estel's mouth and burned across his throat. "They will not take the ring." Venom oozed in his eyes and Bilbo squirmed underneath the rough pressure of his fingers.

Rough steps drew near, pounding across dried grass and parched ground. Fifteen? Twenty? Maybe more. He would have to hold for the right moment. The hobbit smelled fresh and free. The boulders they hid in were tall, stretching above Estel's head. They continued along the base of the cliff for several yards in both directions.

"Journey towards the rising sun," he breathed to the hair. "Journey until you come to a river; walk upstream the river until you come to the bridge. The elves will see you and your burden safe." He pulled back, one arm dropping to rest against the cold hilt of his sword.

"You do not… you will not survive?"

"If I do not," the young man amended, pale lips tugging in a tremulous smile. "If I do not, wait until the orcs have passed you by and flee in the direction of the rising sun. And, tell the elf, Legolas, of my travails. He will protect you as I have."

Bilbo's white chin jittered as he nodded.

Gray eyes burned brightly as Estel reached inwards, towards the bond, towards Legolas. There was a gentle peace exuding and his breathing eased, blood slowing through tortured veins. "No matter what you should hear." He spoke to the sky as his fingers gripped his blade firmly – as the heavy steps echoed against his skull. "No matter what, Bilbo, remain silent."

Thump. Thump. The laughter and heavy breathing of orcs.

Estel patted the soft head and stood, fingers scrabbling against the rocks at his back. One deep breath and he jogged ten steps through the sandy boulders. Sweaty fingers slipped against the sandy rock and he cursed as the deep crags scraped uncomfortably against him. Sucking in a breath, he heaved himself to the top of the boulder and stretched out on his stomach.

Numb, aching fingers fumbled as he strung the bow, fitting the arrow against the string. He waited as the orcs approached – waited until the leader was just past him, heavy laughter hurting his ears – waited – and then drew the string back and released. He heard the hiss of the arrow sweeping passed his head.

Crimson spurted in an ugly fountain against the blue and gold landscape and the leader pitched forward with scarcely a sound.

The second in command balked and twisted, searching the bright rocks before barking out in the ugly, black tongue of Mordor. He moved briefly and then hacked gouts of blood as an arrow sliced through his vocal chords and airway. He expired with a grunt and a hiss as blood soaked into the yellow ground.

Shaken and wary, the remaining orcs clustered about each other, their own squat bows pointing up at the deadly weapons had come from. One black feathered arrow skimmed across the rock near the young man's head, falling with a tinny clatter to the ground below. He watched the arrow and spared only a moment to be glad that orcs generally had terrible aim. But, Estel knew, there was only a moment to be grateful for his life – then, once more, he had to act.

Estel rolled to the left, leaving his bow lying atop the rock. One hand gripped a lumpy outcropping, slowing his descent to the ground marginally. His knees bent deeply as he landed on the sandy ground. He intended to use the next step to spring forward, sword drawn. He intended to strike at the orcs before they could pinpoint where he was… but his plans were destroyed in and instant when his right foot slipped on a spot of dry, loose sand.

His arms flailed and the sky spun lazily as he fought to keep upright. When he was finally able to gain his balance, shaky and disturbed, the thumping of his heart almost drowned out his thoughts. He had a strange compulsion to kneel and perform obeisance to Ilúvatar for saving his life once more – but there was no time.

The orcs turned towards him, dark eyes widening, and Estel barely had a moment to notice that these creatures seemed bigger than the orcs he head previously fought. And they did not seem at all hampered by the sunlight.

He imagined the ground shook as they came at him and he only had time to raise his sword before they were on him. Somehow, he batted away the first stroke, driving the white of his blade deep into an exposed belly and jerking the newly crimson blade out. He spun and ducked, sword clashing against the shorter scimitars of the creatures.

They pressed against him, teeth bared and eyes teeming with beastly hunger, and he lashed out, leaving one orc headless and another with one arm. Blood spurted.

It was strange, he decided as his vision blurred with sweat and the warm heat of blood droplets trickled through the unshaven growth of beard on his cheeks. Strange the things one thinks about when in battle. Strange how an orc could crumple with innards hanging out right at his feet – and he only thought of the dampness of his feet inside his boots or the dryness of his own throat – the need to take a razor to his scratchy beard.

He planted his foot, contorting his body to dodge the swing of a blade, driving his sword at the thigh of another. But there were too many. He backpedaled, seeking more room to maneuver, his breath loud and raspy in his own ears.

An orc fell, clutching at an arm that was no longer there to hold.

Estel was about to charge forward again, hoping to take as many out as possible before an inevitable blade ended his life – hoping that enough would fall and allow Bilbo to make for Rivendell. He darted to the left and drew up short when a high-pitched cry of his name echoed in the bloody plains.

He spun wildly to the rock he had left Bilbo and saw the small hobbit's huge, terrified eyes as a blade of a tall orc was slowly driven into the trembling stomach. His denial of the sight was a mere croak in his dusty throat and he lunged, swiping his sword like a scythe, racing towards the hobbit.

The tall orc twisted in Estel's direction and a slow, yellow smile spread over the face. In a move almost too fast for the naked eye, it flipped the small hobbit against its massive chest and pulled the blade from his stomach, bringing it to rest brutally against the white throat. "One more step, man," it hissed, "and this halfling dies."

Estel skidded and came to a halt, sweat rolling down his face and chest heaving. He could not look away from the thick trails of crimson soaking down Bilbo's shirt and pants. A clamoring rose up within him and he dry swallowed. "Let him go," he breathed, lips barely moving. He could not think – thoughts scattered about like shards of crystal...

The yellowed teeth bared briefly in a strange parody of a grin that almost seemed it would shatter the darkly veined face into a million pieces. The orc growled softly through the sharp teeth. "Surrender, scum."

Estel hesitated and a line of red appeared on the small, soft neck, dribbling down to stain the white collar, and then further to mingle with the red blood streaming from the hobbit's stomach. He could hear Bilbo's frantic breathing – the tiny chest heaving up and down in the beginnings of a panic attack.

"Drop it."

The weapon clattered to the ground and Estel held him self steady as the rough hands of orcs clutched at him from behind. "Let him go," he said again when he felt coarse rope press against his wrists. "Let him go."

When the orc just smiled again, something deep inside Estel pulled taut with a harsh yank that reverberated through his teeth and bones of his ears. He lashed backwards, driving one orc's crooked nose bones deep inside its brain. Reaching with both hands, he flicked his wrists, snapping the neck of another.

A huge body collided against his back and he tumbled forward. He hit the ground and found that the air had grown too thin to breathe. He gasped futilely to regain his wind as his hands were bound behind his back and a rope was knotted about his neck. "What do you," he managed painfully as he was dragged to his feet, the thick hemp of the rope digging into his throat. "What do you want with us?" He coughed.

Bilbo was dragged over, face white and blood gushing from the wound in his stomach. He was thrust in Estel's direction and the man managed to brace the small creature upright with his own body. Bilbo trembled briefly and then sagged to the ground, lying across Estel's feet as the sun dried the bloody ground.

The orc just behind him blew foul breath all over Estel's neck, jerking his arms as the young man fought to bend down to check on the quiet hobbit. "Our master, Saruman, has need of you."

* * *

Heavy grooves touched the skin around Legolas's mouth, shadows falling across his chin and dipping to his neck. He wanted to – wanted to not be here. An indiscernible tug was deep in his mind and he could not… One slim shoulder shrugged underneath his heavy, ceremonial robe. They had introduced him as the king of Greenwood and the men – the ambassadors from Gondor and Rohan had bowed.

It had been long, Legolas reflected almost sourly, since someone had shown him obeisance. Long had it been since he had worn the robes of ceremony and was called by his title. And Legolas wished it had been longer still.

Glorfindel sat by his side, noble and quiet. His wide face was shadowed by the sun and his thoughts. Now and then, he would bend his head, hair falling over his face and eyes peering at Legolas's paler, smaller face. "That is Denethor," he murmured once, gesturing to a dark haired youth with a small forehead, "son of Echtellion, the steward of Gondor. He is the same age as your Estel."

"The steward's son?" Legolas responded just as quiet, pale lips just moving. He stopped, staring. "Is he a good steward? I have not kept on the affairs of Gondor. I should have but time is always short when mortals live around you…"

"Echtellion is noble. Though I fear he does not look for the King as his father did. They grow weary and say the prophecies are myths – they say the King will never come." Glorfindel turned his keen eye to his friend.

"He will come," Legolas asserted softly. "He will come. Who is that beside him?" His dark eyes skimmed up and down the dark, rangy frame sitting next to the steward's son – the dark blonde hair pulled back from the sharp nose, hollowed cheekbones, and deep eyes. "He does not look to be the king of Rohan."

"Brome of Rohan, the chief counselor to Thengel, the king. He is said to have helped stave Saruman from conquering Rohan years ago." Glorfindel paused and Legolas could feel the weight of the Balrog Slayer's gaze on his face and shoulders. "You do not look well, Legolas. You are pale and trembling."

"Am I?" Legolas touched his face. "Oh. My wound, I suppose." But he felt no pain. Elrond had done his work well. "Something in my mind…" Legolas blinked slowly, the bronze colors of the pavilion tunneling before him. Mauve swished across and the tunnel caved in, leaving Legolas startled and breathing deeply.

"Men of the West, elves of Lothlorien, Greenwood, and Rivendell, dwarves of the Mountain – I bid you welcome. Long has it been when such a diverse council has gathered together. But strange times call for certain measures. Gondor and Rohan," he gestured to the men, "have come seeking our aid as Saruman gathers up arms against him. "I yield the floor to Denethor of Gondor."

The youth stood from his chair, long pale hands folded neatly before his stomach. Rohan and Gondor made a pact in the days of Grandfather to aid one another against the forces of evil in this land. We have fought as a united front for a score of years and we have triumphed together – until recently. Darkness stirs thickly on Gondor's northern borders. The land of Mordor is rising."

"This is no new information, Steward's son. Mordor has broiled with constant wickedness before your father was born. Why should now be exemplary?" Legolas kept his voice steady even as his vision began to tunnel once more, headache flashing across his forehead. Natural animosity raged within him but he did not allow himself to voice the bitterness. This, he told himself, was not the time or place.

Denethor's fingers tightened about each other. "Our spies have glimpsed massive armies forming behind the black gaze. The all-seeing eye has touched our land with death. Sauron is marshalling an army twice the size of the wizard's. If they attack together, we will be pressed on two fronts. We will not survive"

Lips clamped and teeth ground together, Legolas held himself back from declaring that his _Estel_ would be the one to save Gondor. Gondor would not perish – not fall to Sauron – because _Estel_ had not taken the throne yet. And Ilúvatar had promised Legolas that Estel would be everything he was prophesied to be. This imposter would not be the one to be a hero for Gondor. Estel would be – and the words became a circling mantra in Legolas's wearied mind as Denethor's voice rose and fell with his passion.

"In the days of the Last Alliance, men and elves and dwarves drove the tide of evil back. We must band together in that manner once more – or the day will come men will be wiped from the face of Middle-earth. And, if we are gone, what will the elves do?" Denethor's voice rose and thickened. "Will they flee over to the sea and leave the dwarves to perish alone in their mountain? Sauron will not stop until everything good and green on this earth is destroyed."

Legolas shifted, the mantra fading enough for him to speak. He vaguely wished his head would stop jostling about in his head. "You make a case, Steward's son, but the last war took many immortal lives and now we must fight again? If we are to help you, we must know that the war will destroy the evil once and for all."

"And what say have you?" The long black hair swished slightly as Denethor straightened his shoulders and stretched his neck out. "You are not Lord Elrond. I came to plead my case before him – not a common elf who had trouble holding his tongue."

"Peace, Denethor." Elrond held out a calming hand, laying it on the young man's shoulder. "This is Legolas, King of Greenwood. His word holds weight at this council – but he is not against you. His points are valid; before we act, the elves must be assured Sauron's power will be stripped completely."

Denethor nodded. "I understand." He turned briefly, and paced towards his chair. "I had a dream," he said at last, back still to the council. His voice was a breath, a tone wrought with a deadly virus, infecting Legolas's ears and filling his mind with thoughts of death. "A dream where I held a golden ring and the powers of darkness fell before the vast armies of men, elves, and dwarves. In the dream, Gondor prospered and became a great nation as I wore the ring on my finger."

Gorge rose up deep inside Legolas – dull, yellow light tinted his vision, words and sounds meshing together – thoughts coalescing into a muddled, dark collage. If Denethor claimed the Ring… the Ring… Saruman's desire and the bane of the race of man… Denethor would kill _Aragorn_to maintain his control of the throne if the ring fell into the hands of this Steward's son. That could not be allowed to happen. And Legolas barely noticed his mind's use of Estel's true name; he was just…

"I believe if we can find this ring, we will be victorious and the main root of evil will be dried and hung from out wall. I looked in the ancient texts of Gondor and found references to a great ring that was in the possession of Isuldir for a short time before he and the ring vanished from history. I believe this is the object that will help us…"

…falling… fading… drifting… shattering…

"Estel." The word rasped against Legolas's throat, brutally loud against his sensitive ears, as his mind exploded in a thousand shards of white heat. Bronze stones spun and glowed, growing strangely larger – as if Legolas was toppling toward them. But that could not be right – he was sitting in a chair, just sitting… then he could not see and there was only a moment to consider how strange that was.

"Legolas!" But, a moment later, Legolas could not hear Elrond either.

**To be continued.**


	21. Swelled With Tempests

**Disclaimer: **I own none of the recognizable characters in this story—they all belong to JRR Tolkien and New Line.

**Wherever the Surge May Sweep**

**By Jame K. **

_**Chapter Twenty: Swelled with Tempests**_

_Bursts as a wave that from the clouds impends,  
And swell'd with tempests on the ship descends;  
White are the decks with foam; the winds aloud  
Howl o'er the masts, and sing through every shroud:  
Pale, trembling, tir'd, the sailors freeze with fears;  
And instant death on every wave appears.  
- Homer _

"You must send aid!" Legolas's face was bleached white and his hands were clenched at his side, pressed against the crushed velvet of his robe. "There is a great darkness in my mind and it grows stronger with each moment. Something dreadful has occurred and I will not allow you just to stand by and let it happen." He stepped, leaning forward to hiss across the stone floor. "If Estel dies, Middle-earth will never have a chance of recovering."

He had awoken only moments after his collapse, panicked and lashing out at Elladan who had knelt by his side to help him. There was no murmur across the bond, just earlier echoes of the pain – Estel was hurting and now he was gone from Legolas's mind.

Elrond regarded him impassively, an expression that goaded the panic rising up through Legolas's lungs. "Mithrandir will meet the elves at the Last Bridge in a day's time. He will instruct us."

"And then it will be too late. Estel is at the camp of the rangers. If Saruman has penetrated the camp of the Dunedain, time is of the essence." Legolas twisted his foot, robe swishing across the smooth stones of the courtyard as he walked towards the edge and the light dappled trees beyond.

Vaguely, he was aware of the mildly surprised faces around him. He paused at the edge of the circular platform, mind drifting over the landscape, seeking that elusive bond he held with the man, stretched thin by the miles – and blocked by an indefinable blankness that terrified Legolas.

"Estel is not at the camp, Legolas." Elrond's rich voice thudded against Legolas's chest, pounding against frazzled nerves.

Legolas waited, uncomprehending, for several moments; waited for Elrond to say something else, to explain. "What?" his voice was stolen by the breeze. "What do you say?" There was something deadly and something afraid in his voice – a small child awaking from the nightmare to discover the monster before her.

"A message came to me four days ago. Estel traveled with the rangers to meet Gandalf – to escort a hobbit to Rivendell for this council." Elrond's voice was calm, soothing, as if he thought he could divert the storm.

Connections burned through Legolas's mind, devastating in their magnitude. He understood and the knowledge seemed to tear something vital in his soul. The urge to weep rose in his throat – followed closely by the desire to scream, but he did neither. A calm fervor shone brilliantly in his eyes as he gazed steadily at the elven lord. Then his eyes faltered, staring at the white smooth stone. Words overlapped within his brain and he swallowed, one hand raised to ward off an invisible foe.

"He went…" _The dream_, his mind seemed to murmur, unable to form a true thought. _The dream… Estel will die and then you will fade from the grief… _"You did not tell me…" He swayed lightly and then turned, eyes only seeing one face out of the many. "Glorfindel – did you know?"

The older elf mutely shook his head, standing and reaching for him. Warm hands closed about Legolas' shoulders and held him steady.

Blue eyes burning painfully, Legolas grasped his friend's wrists and bored his gaze deep into the other elf's eyes. "It has come undone," he said wonderingly, gaze drifting and growing long but still febrile in its contemplation. "I had dreamed of this just a few nights ago. I did not think it would be so soon." He moved away, staggering just a little.

Glorfindel reached for him but Legolas gently pushed the hands aside.

"We must try, Elrond," he said at last, the words coming from a vacant, clear face. "We must at least try to save him." He sensed the two older elves meeting each other's gazes over his head. But there was no emotion to summon up.

Finally, Elrond nodded, face grave. He looked repentant, Legolas managed with a tinge of hope. Gray eyes hardened just slightly and the pale mouth moved slightly as the elven lord swallowed. "I will send dispatches. They will look for them."

Legolas exhaled, pulse throbbing in his throat. "Hannon le," he murmured and then walked away. It would be enough – it would have to be enough.

* * *

Estel ran because if he stopped, he would not start again. He ran because while there is life, there is hope. Hours ago – when the sun had been high and the orcs whips had been cruel as the prodded him to run – he had shut his mind to the warm blood seeping from the halfling's wounds and into his shirt. He had forced himself not to listen to the gasping breaths and pained moans – or to feel the scratchy ropes that hobbled his ankles tightly. They had left his arms free to carry the wounded hobbit – and for that he was immensely grateful.

He did not flinch when the sharp whip cut into his back – when they laughed cruelly and made him go faster – when his own blood dripped down his legs and bloody footprints were left behind him on the ground. His head spun occasionally and his steps swaggered and he swayed as his blood dripped from his body. But he did not stop – he could not stop.

They stopped in a clearing, white sunlight fading on bare rocks. The sky had been golden as the sun slowly dissipated, leaving only remnants of warmth behind. Brown, yellow grass had bristled against the rocks, gathering in clumps over dry, flaky dirt that gusted up into Estel's eyes as the cool, evening breezes began to sweep across the long, dry plains.

He staggered when the command to halt came, hands flexing across the small hobbit as he fought to hold his grip in the midst of the overwhelming relief that they were _stopping_. He breathed deeply, feet aching, and tumbled soundlessly to the ground, rolling at the last moment so that he landed on his back, Bilbo safely cradled against his stomach. The young man did not even notice when they came to tighten the bindings around his feet, making it impossible to walk – he was just grateful that his hands were once again left free so that he could tend to Bilbo.

For a long time, time faded and stretched, as Estel stared up at the silver sky, his own gray eyes dull and brittle. He blinked once, twice; swollen, parched moving achingly across his lips and throat working as he swallowed. The blood streaked across the dirt, his blood merging with the hobbit's as they both bled their life away.

The orcs left him there, knowing he was too weak to run any more. They had thrown several scraps of bread in his directions and made bets on if he would crawl to the dirty slices or go hungry in deference to his pain.

When the sun faded and the orcs started a roaring blaze, Estel roused, hand drifting over the springy curls of the hobbit.

"Bilbo?" he murmured as his hand fell down to touch the side of the soft neck. "My friend?" A soft pulse throbbed just beneath his fingers and he sighed. "Awake," he whispered as he sat up slowly, cradling the small body against his chest as his hand stroked the sweaty forehead.

The small eyes blinked and the mouth turned downward in a frown of pain. "Estel," he murmured. "My, all adventures are not exciting, are they?"

"No," Estel agreed shakily. "They are not. Do not worry. The elves will come for us. Legolas will come for us."

Bilbo nodded and his hands played across his stomach, ghosting across the bloody wound there. "I will not be there to see them come."

"Yes, you will." Estel smiled warmly. "You are strong and the bleeding slows." And he did not mention the organs that he knew had been pierced by the orc's blade, he did not mention the rigidity he had felt in the small creature's midsection when he had pressed to stem the flow of blood. "The elves will come soon."

"Listen." The hobbit fumbled at his scarlet waistcoat, just next to the gaping wound. "There is something I must give to you. It was my prize possession – I found it up in the hills. But I know it must go to you now. You must keep it safe. I fear that there is an evil in it that will not be conquered easily." He coughed and Estel saw his fingers close over a small object hidden deep in his pocket.

"No," the young man said. "Do not give it to me now. It is yours…"

Bilbo smiled bloodily. "No – it is _yours_." He drew a gold chain from his pocket, slowly so each link seemed to slip one by one across the brocaded material. And, then, a gold ring emerged, just catching the glint of the orcs fire.

Estel glanced up sharply and sighed in relief when he found that no orcs were looking in their direction. They danced around the fire, sharp fangs flashing as they tore into raw meat, and laughing loudly as they talked in their own coarse, guttural language. Mead was passed around freely and Estel knew they would not be coherent for long. If Bilbo could hold on a little longer, perhaps they could run…

"It is yours," Bilbo repeated, bringing Estel's gaze back to him. "I think I knew from the first time I saw you that the ring belonged with you. I did not want to let it go – it was precious to me – but now I know." He sighed and one small hand grasped Estel's larger one, gripping with surprising strength. "You must take it – keep it safe," his head rose a little from where it rested in the crook of the man's elbow and the fingers flexed tightly. "Destroy it."

Estel nodded wordlessly, breath coming harsh and fast, and blood tingling across his inner cheek where he had bitten down.

With a great amount of effort, Bilbo slid the chain around the man's head and then fell back, his back hit the wide part of the man's thigh and he deteriorated into panting. "Promise," he said again after he had calmed, "promise that you will conquer the evil and destroy it. I was not strong enough – I did not want to destroy it. But now I see – oh, how clearly I see! – and it must be destroyed. You must do this." His grip tightened around Estel's fingers, voice nothing more than a harsh whisper just underneath the carousing of the orcs. "Promise me."

"I promise." And the weight settled about Estel's neck – and for a moment, he could not breathe, caught up in the feeling of the metal around his neck and the heavy ring against his chest. It seemed to throb in time with his heart.

The hobbit relaxed, tiny face easing into tranquility. "It is good then," he said. "Very good." He choked a little, face turning aside as his breathy huffs brought up a splattering of blood. Hushed whimpers eased past his white, scarlet lips and Estel knew the end was near.

He crooned softly, shifting to lie on his side so that the hobbit was spooned against his chest. "Hush, soon you will be in Valinor. Legolas tells me it is a green land – like the Shire, rolling hills and flowers. You will be happy. There is no more pain or tears or suffering."

Bilbo's face creased and he struggled for breath – struggled for life.

"No, do not fight it. There is no need to fear. The pain will be gone soon. No, do not be afraid." He pulled the curly head against his chest. "I am with you. Do not be afraid. Just rest."

The almost translucent eyelids fluttered closed and the breaths evened out. He was not dead – but it would not be long.

Estel held the hobbit tightly as the orcs fell slowly into a drunken stupor, not caring that they had left their captive poorly bound. But, Estel did not notice as his attention was focused on the dying creature in his arms.

The stars were shining brightly and one lone orc was standing guard when Bilbo opened his eyes one last time, eyes burning fiercely in the starry darkness.

"Go, Estel," he said as if a revelation had come to him while he had slept, "go to the elves." And, his chest stuttered painfully and fell still; blue eyes still gazing at the young man – though the bright gaze was now dull and blank like two glassy baubles in the lifelike face of a child's doll.

Estel sobbed just once, feeling very much like a little boy instead of the young man he was. He kissed the chilled forehead and ran a hand over the small face, closing the staring eyes. "Be at peace, hafling," he murmured under his breath even as his fingers went down to work the bindings at his feet.

He grieved. Deep inside where there was peace, he wept for the cool body leaning against his thigh. His mind, his soul, seemed to be divided into two parts – the ragged, firm thoughts directing his escape – the muddled, blurred grief permeating his emotions. He functioned.

The hemp fell from his ankles and he blew a cool breath across the underside of his nose. He held still, dreading a twitch of movement from the bulges of ratty clothes that darkness made the sleeping orcs. Then, he shifted the tiny body from across his lap to the ground.

Moonlight caught the pale lips as the face rolled gently to one side, cheek pressing against the dirt. A bit of blood sloshed from the partially opened mouth, spilling down to puddle in the dirt.

Estel noted all of these things with a clinical detachment. His hand only lingered on the cool chest a moment as he slowly gained his feet, and looked once more at the single sentry.

Then he ran.

Later, he would imagine all of the paths he could have taken from the camp. He had looked to the sky, seen the shining light of Polaris, and had set out towards the east once again. He had not attempted to skirt along the cliffs to the north or perhaps move subtly through the shrubbery to the south. Instead, he had forced his aching body into a run across the wide plains, desiring just to be _home_ once more.

The night was clear, cool breezes skirting over the tall grasses and drying out his mouth. For blessedly clear, silent moments, there was only the sound of his feet on the soft, dried dirt. He controlled his breathing and he ran – for a few silent moments.

Drifting on the night breeze, the sounds of orcs reached his ears. Not lethargic orcs awaking out of slumber to find their prisoner gone – but marching orcs with quick, hungry steps and loud voices.

His frenetic brain registered the noises; he turned; and was pinned by a great beam of light. White, piercing and painful, the pillar of light surrounded him, laying him out before his predecessors – a bearskin laid out on the tanning board. He could see nothing beyond the brightness, just dark puddles of sound coming closer. Thick, cooling blood slid down his back as the wounds from the whip tore and re-opened.

A thick, dark, hairy hand reached from the blackness, looking grotesque in the clear light. Instinctively, Estel tried to jerk away, tried to flee, but found that he was held immobile.

Despair bubbled up as the hands closed about his wrists and another pair of arms wrapped around his waist, dragging him into the darkness.

"A prisoner?" a deep voice said, echoing around Estel's ringing head. "Escaping?"

Through blinded, spotted eyes, Estel could just see the bulky blob of the orc who had led in his first capture, groveling and sniffling before a tall man in white.

"Silence!" the voice barked. "You have allowed a prisoner to escape because your were reveling in drink and blood. Kill him."

A soft thump immediately followed the words – and silence reigned as the orc's head rolled across the white-yellow grass. It came to rest, severed neck pointed towards Estel with one huge, glassy eye staring at the heavens. The heavy body lay several feet away, crumpled like a worn-out horse.

"Now, what manner of human is this?" The brilliant, blinding light vanished as swiftly as it had come. A moment later, a gentle glowing light filled the plains, illuminating the ugliness of the orcs and the hook nose of the man bending close to him.

The light, Estel noticed absently, seemed to be emanating from the old man's staff. He quickly forgot the oddity of this even when he was pulled up straight, his hair nearly ripped from his scalp by his over-enthusiastic captors. He blinked sporadically and found himself staring at a bearded face surrounded by flowing white hair.

Dark eyes peered out from behind a large nose, boring into Estel's mind, and the small pale lips were twisted angrily showing grayish teeth. "Just a ranger…" he began, voice irritated and condescending as he dropped Estel's head, long, white robes swishing around him. "Kill him now and spare us the trouble of carrying him. He is not the one we are seeking."

The orc holding Estel's hair snuffled happily and the young man could hear metal drawn out of a scabbard. His gaze dropped downward as the sharp point of a blade came up to touch his stomach.

"I will pull your entrails out," a gnarled face informed him. "Slowly."

Estel huffed a breath and cleared his mind, not quite accepting his imminent death but knowing that denying the reality of steel was futile. He closed his eyes and retreated into his mind, seeking the warmth of the bond, stretched thin by space but still there. "Legolas," he murmured as a resonant bit of Legolas glowed from the bond. No pain could – or would – touch him.

Here, he could slip into death wrapped in peace and love – unfeeling of the agony that he knew would come when the orcs fulfilled their promise to rip his innards out. Vaguely, the memory of when he had felt Legolas's death arose in his mind. The absolute pain and fear and the knowledge that came with the severing of the bond – part of him hoped that Legolas would not feel that. Then he felt only the chilliness of the blade touching his bare skin and…

"Stop!"

The blade was dropped and Estel's head was once more jerked upward.

Dark glaring eyes peered at him, stealing his breath. Several moments passed then a long-nailed hand shot forward, gripping the chain Bilbo had dropped about Estel's neck only moments before.

"A ring," the man whispered. "A young man who calls upon the name of Legolas and a golden ring that murmurs to my mind. Coincidence?" He dropped the trinket and scowled at Estel. "What is your name?"

Estel glared back, unwilling to answer.

The man's gaze was calculating as his eyes swept over the young man's face in a way that made Estel distinctly uncomfortable. "Who is your sire?"

When Estel did not answer again, the man stepped away.

"Set up camp and then bring him to my tent. I will kill the one who lets him escape."

* * *

Legolas sat among the irises, bare feet tucked beneath him and hair unbound. A strange melancholy was settled over his white face. He blinked and drew a long breath. Elrond had reassured him all would be well. Glorfindel had promised to die if it was necessary to bring Estel back to him.

But – a breeze swept through the trees sweeping Legolas's hair around his face – there was a foreboding deep within his mind. Estel was not dead. The bond had eased open and when Legolas focused his considerable mental power on the bond, he could feel the soft echoes of the young man's presence – just teasing of the young man's presence deep within his mind.

There was a change, however. Something indefinable, like the difference between identical twins, mutated Estel's presence in his mind. The beginnings of evilness, Legolas thought and then snapped a twig in his hand when the magnitude of the thought struck him.

Estel was not evil. The white face scrunched, blue eyes turning to flint, and mouth hardening as he shook his head in vehement denial. His Estel would never surrender to the wickedness – Estel was not like his father.

Legolas dug his hands into the dirt, taking comfort in the warmth. There could not be another failure on his part. But there was nothing else he could do now.

White irises blurred before him. He was not crying but his vision swam as he would faint. He paused, staring at the blue sky and the sunlight splotched leaves. Finally, he turned his head to the side, aching eyes going to the trees. "You can come out. My composure will not shatter with your presence."

Elladan emerged, red-faced. "I thought I had hidden myself well."

Legolas smiled mildly. "You had – I only just noticed you." He scooted against the trunk of one tree, fingers splayed against the soft petals of the iris. "Come, sit beside me. You have been quiet, my friend."

"I live in thought. Burdens weigh upon my mind and they show no sign of lifting." Elladan glanced down, the sun glimmering dully on his dark hair. "Forgive me for mentioning my troubles when yours are so much greater."

Pale hands squeezed the delicate flower. "Do you believe he is evil?" he asked, seemingly addressing the irises. "I cannot think of him like that. But, perhaps I am blind? I did not notice the iniquity creeping into Arathorn until the very end."

He cast his eyes to Elladan and found him listening intently, head bent and long fingers playing with the grass.

"Perhaps I do not see what is right before me." Legolas caught his breath, blue eyes turning foggy with thought. "Perhaps Estel is gone from me even now."

"You are not blind." Elladan's voice was slightly rough and he inclined his head close to Legolas's, breathing into his nose. "You are the… most remarkable elf I have ever met. My father once told me if anyone could save the Isildur's heir – it would be you. You are stronger than most." His words hitched. "Stronger than me."

Legolas turned, frowning and genuinely puzzled. "You have been my strength for many centuries, my old friend. Why do you doubt yourself now?" Elladan's face seemed worn, he noted, for the first time truly looking at his friend. Wrinkles clung just around the warm gray eyes and his pale skin seemed to be stretched translucently over his prominent bones. "Elladan?" He reached out and smoothed the wrinkle next to the right eye, thumb lingering just inside the dark hairline.

Elladan bit his lips, white teeth contrasting sharply. His eyes closed and he breathed quietly for several moments as Legolas's thumb continued to smooth over the skin next to his eye. "I am weak because I do not tell my oldest friend what lies in the depths of my heart."

Legolas's mouth turned downward and he leaned closer to the dark head. "Speak your mind then and I will listen. Have I ever judged you in any matter before I heard it in its entirety?" He watched as Elladan's face almost crumpled, emotions held in place by the delicate strings pure willpower.

The gray eyes peered intently at him, scouring Legolas's mind and soul.

Legolas flinched, flower crushed in his hand. "Elladan," he murmured softly, gaze dropping to the ground. The bond was tingling. He jerked, iris falling into the ground, and one hand going to his head. "Elladan," he said again, this time a plea as a pain grew deep within his brain, blossoming to consume all other thoughts.

Estel was there, just beyond the grasp of his mind. If he just stretched a little farther perhaps he would find the soul of the boy once more… Legolas battered against the bond, stretching and reaching in the direction of Estel.

Then the feeling was lost – the tingling fading into a strange numbness that ached within Legolas's bones. He was so weary and the melancholic tidal wave was back, dragging him deep into despair.

He opened his eyes and found Elladan's gray eyes close to his own – and the other elf's warm hands on either sides of his face.

"Legolas? Are you well? You would not respond…"

Legolas jerked slightly, falling back from the support and landing on the palms of his hands. "I need," he dry swallowed and quailed a moment before continuing. "I need to go to the house. Perhaps they have news of Estel." He stood, staggered just a bit, and hurried in the direction of the main houses – never looking back.

**To be continued.**


	22. What We are Made Of

**Disclaimer: **I own none of the recognizable characters in this story—they all belong to JRR Tolkien and New Line.

**Wherever the Surge May Sweep**

**By Jame K. **

_**Chapter Twenty-One: What We Are Made Of**_

_Alas, our frailty is the cause, not we,  
For such as we are made of, such we be.  
- William Shakespeare_

The flavor of apples burst over his tongue and glided across the insides of his cheeks as he sloshed the juice around, trying to cover every part of his dusty mouth with the wetness. He closed his eyes – only to aware of the dark eyes watching him – and made a monumental effort to keep his hand from shaking.

"Do you know who I am?" the old man asked in a deep, booming voice that belied his age. He seemed to have grown taller, feeling the tent with the overpowering sense of his presence.

Estel cast his eyes to the ostentatious patterns of the ceiling and down to the plush, crimson pillow beneath one elbow. "No," he said at last, placing the glass of juice on the wide table and casting his eyes to the golden brazier and the low fire that sparked there. "Should I?"

The old man gave a closed mouth chuckle and lowered himself down across from the young man, settling his robes across the cushion. His wrinkled fingers stroked the staff though his gaze – wide, dark, and disconcerting – remained steady and biting on Estel. "I know Legolas and I knew your sire. Both were friends of mine once."

"But orcs run beside you now." Estel's mouth once was once again dry and he considered for a dreadful beat that the juice had been poisoned. His stomach rolled and he sagged against the cushions, a sudden sweat breaking just below his hairline. No, this man would not have gone to all the trouble to clean him up and bring him to this tent just to watch him to expire on the ground, choking on his own vomit.

"It was not poisoned," he said as if he knew the thoughts inside the young man's head. The old man drew closer, his long white hair swaying in the stillness of the tent. "And I promise you will not be harmed if an accord can be reached between us."

"What," Estel swallowed thickly, hands running nervously along the edges of his ragged tunic. "What accord? Who are you?"

The old man sighed as if the weights of a thousand fishermen had hooked onto his large nose. "I am Saruman, young man, the White wizard of Middle-earth."

Estel's hand jerked and the glass of juice tumbled to sticky the floor and cushions as he unconsciously retreated into his mind, seeking warmth and comfort from Legolas. "What?" he stammered at last, feeling dreadfully outmaneuvered.

The wizard sighed again, his mouth turning up slightly as he watched the young man's reaction. "It pains me to think Legolas has not spoken of me to you. I had imagined we were much better friends than that – or at least better enemies."

_He has spoken of you_, Estel wanted to say, _when he thought I could not hear and then there was fear in his voice. _ But he kept tongue still and gripped the material tightly; the hardened pads of his fingers turning mottled red and white.

Saruman made a derogatory noise in the back of his throat and waved one hand in dismissal of the previous topic. "What do you know of the Ring you carry?"

Estel instinctively raised a hand to his chest to clutch at the Ring and Saruman laughed again. He could not let Saruman take the ring… he could not…

"You see," the wizard said, voice just above a whisper as he leaned near to Estel, breathing in his ear. "It speaks to you already – it calls to you. Can you not hear it, filling your mind with thoughts of its own?"

Estel furled his hand tighter about the bit of gold. The whispers in his mind grew louder, echoing about his head. He felt for a moment that he was in a long tunnel – voices swirling around him and the gold light of the ring at the other end.

_Power_… they murmured. _Anything you want – anything at all._

With a great gasp that seemed to crack his ribs, Estel tore himself from the grip of the tunnel and faced the smirking wizard. "It calls," he acknowledged, realizing that denial was useless. "But," he lifted his chin, hand loosening from the Ring and falling to his lap. "I will not answer."

The wizard nodded as if he expected no other proclamation. "Now you will not. But you will – the whispers will work in your mind, turning every kind thought into hatred – warping love into lust – and trust into bitterness. Then you will give yourself to the power that awaits you. You will come to me."

Estel hissed low in the back of his mouth. "Never."

"Do not be so sure." The fire in the brazier dimmed, orange sparks sputtering. "It took your forefather only moments to fall under its spell – a hardened man late in years. And, you are just a youth."

His mouth moved and Estel's leg dropped from where it was curled beneath him to the floor. "What? What are you saying?"

"Oh, poor boy." Saruman's face seemed truly crestfallen for a moment and his hand left his staff to rest upon Estel's knee; the young fought the urge to jerk away. "Legolas has not told you the truth all of these years."

Estel shook his head and did jerk his knee away, huddling against the back of his chair. "Legolas has never lied to me."

"But, he has – he has lied to you about who _you _are."

"Legolas would not… lie." But the words lacked some of their previous conviction. Estel closed his eyes and drew inside of himself as his arms wrapped around his chest in a physical manifestation of his mental retreat. "He always tells me the truth – no matter what the costs to him or me."

"What do you know of your sire?" Saruman's voice was farther away and Estel opened his eyes to see the wizard standing next to the brazier, pouring wine into a yellow goblet set with gems. "Your mother? Has Legolas ever spoken of them to you? Ever told your about them?"

"No – but he has not lied…"

"Your father's name was Arathorn," the wizard said and the name meant nothing to Estel. "He was the son of Arador – son of Aragorn."

Estel listened to the names of his father, grandfather, and great-grandfather impassively. He had never known them – there was no emotional connection to the names said in the wizard's deep, thick voice. There was a vague shattering of childish dreams – the young boy who had dreamed that Legolas was his father. The dreams had faded as Estel grew, realizing that there was no genetic link between him and the elf; yet the absolute confirmation of their invalidity still struck a chord deep inside of him and he felt like crying. "The names mean nothing," he said at last. "Legolas never disclosed the name of my sire so he never lied."

"But, you will interested to know," the wizard continued as he crossed the room to sit before Estel once again. He casually sipped from the glass, one hand resting on the top of the chair in an imitation of the regal fluidity of the elves. "That the lineage of Arathorn traces back to the king of the Isildur – making you the direct heir to the throne of Gondor and heir to that Ring you carry against your chest."

His face remained steady – not because he took the news with stoicism, but for a few brief moments, he did not understand the wizard's meaning. Then, his brow furled toward his nose and his lips turned downward. "Isildur," he said and then fell silent, lost in deep thought. Slowly, connections revealed themselves to him – puzzles became clear as mismatched pieces suddenly rearranged and fit together, revealing a picture frightening in its magnitude.

"You are the heir of Isildur," Saruman murmured and Estel could see the eagerness in his eyes – the blood lust that stole all natural affections and turned him into a deep monster. "The Ring is yours to wield. Your forefathers understood the power that could be theirs if they took the Ring unto themselves. The elves in their petty fear kept them from realizing the true power that could be yours. Think of it, Estel, you could be the sun and moon of Middle-earth – the rising and the setting, as you were intended to be since the beginning of time. You are destined to rule – and the Ring will lead you to that destiny, enable you to be the king over all."

Estel had dropped his head, chin touching his chest as he slowly took deep breaths through his nose and out of his mouth. His fists clenched and he seemed to tremble for a few moments before his body seemed to lose all animation save for the gentle rise and fall of his chest. Then, "the ring needs to be destroyed. I will destroy it." His voice grew stronger, deepening in its intensity. "I will destroy the ring. I do not know how or – or where – but I will." He stood slowly, knees refusing to lock for several moments as he wavered in the dark, penetrating gaze of the wizard.

Saruman leaned back. "So be it," he said, fingers tenting in front of him.

"You are not going to kill me?" Estel's voice did not waver but his eyes clearly revealed that he had been expecting that end.

"No, of course not. Despite Legolas's negative view of me, I am not evil. I simply take the opportunities that are most beneficial to me." Saruman smiled.

Estel's eyes darkened suspiciously as he backpedaled. "I am taking the Ring. And Bilbo," he said a moment later. "I am not weak like my forefathers. I will destroy the Ring and its evil will never threaten Middle-earth again."

The condescending smile made Estel flinch. "Estel," the tall wizard said softly, "you will take the path of most benefit to you – that is not being weak. It is merely being wise. I promise you, when you and I stand together, we will rule Middle-earth. You will have power, prestige – anything and everything you want will be right at your fingertips. I will let you go now; but soon, the Ring will tell you of the folly of your ways and you will return to me – to rule by my side. Besides," he said, his tone growing almost derogatory as he waved a hand indifferently, "the Ring cannot be destroyed."

Estel's knees wavered but he took another step backwards. "It can and will be," he murmured almost to himself. "Legolas will teach me right – he will show me how to destroy the ring and I will rise where my forefathers did not."

Anger flashed across the wizard's face. "You fool! You can never hope to stand against your destiny – your blood has predestined you to take the power of the Ring! If you turn from that path and settle for the measly life of a ranger, you will always be unfulfilled and weak. With the Ring on your finger, you will be the greatest king Middle-earth has ever known.

"Elrond, Galadriel – all those elves that bear the wisdom of the Eldar fear you. They wished to kill you at birth for they fear that you would usurp their power. They told Legolas that they had walked the paths of your future – seeing you be the great ruler of Middle-earth – and they wished to murder you in your cradle so one day they could conquer this land. Legolas had made a promise to your sire to look after you so he stood against the plans for your death – but he swore that he would restrain you from your full potential. Even now he seeks to restrain you from the power that could be yours. He is stifling you, Estel."

Estel locked his knees. "No – you are wrong. Legolas loves me as if I were the child of his loins. He cares for me as if I were his firstborn son."

"Legolas fulfills a promise made to Arathorn – his dearest friend – on his death bed. Legolas is the honorable sort, is he not? Would he ever break his promise like that?" The wizard's face changed from irritation to kind benevolence. "Estel, please, I only seek to show you the truth. The Ring is yours – Legolas has vowed to keep you locked in unknowing depravity so that the elves can truly dominate. Do you understand? Legolas is your enemy."

Estel shook his head and breathed deeply. "No," he said, "you are wrong." A deep grimace carved over his mouth. "I will leave now and I will destroy the Ring – so if you wish to destroy me, do it now."

Saruman shook his head. "No, my son, you are free to go. Take the fastest horse and the body of the Halfling and go to the elves – but think of the power that could be yours. Just think – and if you ever change your mind – I will be there." Saruman waved his hand and turned to his drink.

Estel's shoulders sagged and he fled the tent. He realized with some modicum of relief – and another of surprise – that it was almost dawn. Blue white sky and a dim moon stretched from the cliffs to the golden plains. The dim light did not yet cause shadows – but left everything lighter, mistier with the edge of darkness about their features.

The outrageous heat had long since cooled leaving the temperature mild – the seaside during autumn.

True to Saruman's word, a horse was provided by a reluctant, snarling orc, who was obviously under strict orders to leave the young man in one piece as he handed the reins of the tall, worn beast to him. Otherwise, Estel knew he probably would be missing several fingers and other limbs not vital to life.

Bilbo lay in the dust, much how Estel had left him the night before. The blood had dried into dusty globules, sticking to the soft, thick curls. The lips were rimmed with a powdery blue and the cheeks were dusted with sepulchral white.

The ring had burned as Estel gently hefted the tiny creature against his chest, one hand falling to dangle like a misplaced toy. His face was serene and Estel found himself strangely taking strength from the quiet calmness in the dead features.

_Death_, he considered as he mounted the horse, body wrapped in a blanket before him, _is much like sleeping._ The words felt profound and they haunted him across the plains – even though he knew the phrase had been reduced to a mundane explanations suited for small children. But one never knows the true accuracy of a cliché until the situation rises before them.

When the horizon turned pink and the grass seemed to be spun gold in the hazy morning life, the vision of Legolas's face appeared in his mind – deathly and still after the attack of the Nazgúl.

Legolas would not have died… almost died… for a boy he did not believe in. The words convinced Estel momentarily but the Ring murmured.

The first subtle warpings of Estel's mind occurred deep within his subconscious – far away from the realm of conscious thought. A seed, an idea, planted deep within the hidden insecurities and the feelings of worthlessness – the fear and uncertainty given birth to Lothlorien the day the elves sought his life.

His hands were lax about the reins and the pace was unencumbered by an urge to get anywhere. The world, Estel felt in that moment, was a colorless flow of the river with no meaning or purpose; or if it did have one, he could not comprehend it.

On his chest, the Ring seemed to burn a cold circle through his chest, reaching through his lungs and creating an aching sensation that grew with each passing section. He gasped once, bending at the waist, hand clutching at his chest.

"I cannot do this," he murmured to the lightening horizon. "I cannot…"

Fear closed his throat, brimming his eyes with foggy clouds as his breathing increased. Dust swirled and clung to the edges of his throat and mouth, sticking in his nasal cavity. Oxygen grew thin as his hot blood fought to bring the life-giving substance to his brain.

He could not breathe, doubling forward at the waist with the body scrunched beneath him. The heated sweat of the horse's neck burned like a brand across his forehead. The horsey smell thickened in his nostrils as his pulse raced onwards, mouth wide open as he fought to bring in more oxygen.

His knuckles went clam white, veins bulging. And then, his breathing slowed, pulse easing its mad race. Finally, he was still, one – two tears clumping on his eyelashes and listing down his cheeks.

"I cannot do it," he cried, pushing his fist against his teeth. He bit the meaty flesh of his fingers and reveled in the pain – reveled in the distraction. A moment longer and he shoved the Ring deep beneath with his shirt, doing the fastenings up and steadfastly ignoring the bit of metal.

The searing freeze of the ring taunted him, whispered to him, and toyed with him. Warping tendrils stretched through the coils of Estel's mind, ingraining themselves deep within the subconscious.

_Love to lust, _the Ring murmured.

_Trust to bitterness._

_Unwavering courage swaying back and forth in the breeze created by uncertainty – and then falling like a tiny bird from a perch._

* * *

"_Mae goevannan_, Legolas," she murmured, coming up to stand beside him. "Your heart is heavy with fear for Estel."

"Arwen," he greeted quietly, eyes not moving from the panorama of hills and waterfalls. "No news has come from the Last Bridge and Elrond – they do not believe me – they wonder if it would not be better to leave him in the wilds to die. They fear him." He turned, eyes bruised – the eyes of a wounded deer as its youngling was taken from his side – as he pled with her to simply _understand_. "You have seen his soul, have you not? That day in Lothlorien – he spoke of your beauty and your kindness often in recent years. You have seen the goodness – the beauty that rests deep inside of him. You must have seen it."

She moved slowly, quietly, putting her arms about his waist and resting her head against the tense muscles of his back. "In every one of us, there is the capacity for great evil. Estel will find that evil in himself soon – and Middle-earth will hold his breath as he weathers the storms of conscience."

Legolas shuddered in her arms. "He will be strong and good. He will save Middle-earth and be the Hope – my hope."

She had sighed softly. "Yes, he will be hope." But she did not agree with the rest of his words and the silence stretched as her breath gently warmed the skin of his back. "Lórien has opened the paths of my life unto me. Within the year, I will go over the Sea, following the path of my mother."

He turned in her arms and laid his forehead against hers, fingers gently brushing aside the tears that he just now saw were trailing down her cheeks. "Arwen…"

Her gentle finger was laid against his lips. "No – do not speak yet; let me say it all before you reply. Estel will come to Rivendell shortly, bearing with him the harbingers of destiny. Soon his path will weave into the darkness and he will fall into the ways of his ancestors."

Reflexive denial made him stiffen but she calmed him.

"But the light will follow him. Events are occurring, Legolas, that will change Middle-earth forever. Do not lose heart, child of Greenwood, for although Estel may live in the dark for a time, the light will return to his soul." She paused, drawing herself back and Legolas saw her firm resolve. "Ilúvatar has spoken to my soul. Within two weeks, I will lay with Estel and I will conceive his child."

"Arwen…"

"It is not a hard thing – Lórien has shown me your child as he is now while I have wandered the paths of the future and he is very beautiful. There is no suffering in going to his bed – no pain in carrying his child within me."

"You are the Evenstar of the Elves, Arwen – your mate should be one of your own choosing – your child should be one you wish to bear, not a task laid upon you by the Valar."

"I have served Ilúvatar for the entirety of my life, Legolas, and their will has always been the steadfast desire of my own heart. The Valar have grown a love for Estel within me – he has my love and I will have his child."

Legolas closed his eyes, feeling the weight of destiny. He could not argue – he too had been guided by Ilúvatar and had loved Estel. "He is a good man and he will love you with all that he can."

She nodded. "That will be enough." She hesitated, hands pressing against her sides. "Our love will not be the love of Beren and Luthien."

He drew the sadness clinging to his spirit about him like a cloak. "In another lifetime – in a gentler world – it would have been. Your love would have surpassed theirs. But, these are not the days of gentle love. Too much – he cannot love you in the fullest measure. There is no time…"

"It is sufficient. We live in a time of war – of strife and hardship – where only those with a bulwark set about their heart survive. Our love is what it will be and nothing more than that."

"What of the Sea?" he asked then, voice weary with the press of life. "Will you leave him alone and take your child to the Undying Lands?"

"No – the child will remain here. Delivering his child to the world will be my last deed in Middle-earth – and, when the time comes, I believe it will be better if I go. In another time, I would have stayed with him, passing in the way of mortals, but not now." Her face had saddened and she had pulled away from Legolas's grasp, breathing in the air as if tears were about to come. "You will suffer, Legolas," she said, "for Estel, you will suffer beyond measure."

"I am prepared." Legolas tilted his head back and squared his shoulders, eyes sparking in defiance as his father's had. "I will face whatever is necessary to save him. He is Hope and I will not believe anything to the contrary."

She touched his forehead, pressing her fingers against the white skin in benediction. "You are stronger than most, Legolas Thranduilion. The weight that is set upon your shoulders would break someone of lesser quality."

"I will endure."

* * *

Glorfindel sat in silence beside the Last Bridge, hands draped loosely over his thighs. For three days he and the small contingent of warriors from Rivendell had waited – waited for word – for smoke rising on the distant line where rolling hills met sky – waited for a rider. But none came.

"We wait for Legolas," he had told himself when his own hope failed for any news. "We wait because he would fade without his Estel."

"Do you believe," Elrond had asked him once again, face shuttered and eyes solemn, as Glorfindel had prepared to ride out, "do you believe in the boy?"

Glorfindel had imagined the lanky, dark-haired youth he had met briefly in Lothlorien and had looked tragically to the west. "I believe in Legolas," he said at last in the quiet of the evening, "I believe he could not be wrong about something so vital."

"He could be blinded," Elrond had murmured to himself, gaze distant and inward. "He could be blinded by his own loves and desires – blinded by his desire for the child of his heart to succeed. Emotions do not always lend themselves to the rational."

"I trust him." Glorfindel had looked over the waterfalls and hanging vines. "He is a river beneath the ground – straight and quiet but full of life and knowledge. I do not believe he would allow himself to be swept aside by any new stream that runs across."

Elrond's smile had turned hard and he had blown a low sound through his lips. "So you defied me – to save him that day in Lothlorien."

"My loyalty is not imperatively yours, Lord Elrond. I choose to whom my loyalty is given. Legolas earned it – and while, my lord, I trust you implicitly – my affections swayed toward Legolas that day. And they will sway to him again whenever the need arises. I could not see him die for the lack of the child."

"But all of Middle-earth might fall into disrepair now," Elrond had said sharply, gaze driving through the Balrog-slayer's feelings. "Would you spare one elf only to watch the whole of Middle-earth tumble into ruin?"

"I do not believe it will come to that. And," Glorfindel had turned, face pointed, "I do not think you would so flippantly cast aside Legolas's feelings as easily as you would have us believe."

"That is… inconsequential." Elrond had left him then, eyes troubled and mouth lined with wrinkles.

And, now, Glorfindel sat beside the bridge, waiting for destiny to come to him on the back of a horse or on foot – healthy and whole or injured and dying. And he could not tell which it would be. The ache of days settled in the dust around him and the trepidation of tomorrow hung against the sun.

On the fourth day of his watch, when the others grew weary and even his heart wished to abandon this fruitless vigil, dust plumed in the distance. He stood and watched as a lone rider approached the bridge with slumped shoulders and a dirty face.

"Estel," he said, voice lined with the relief that he would not have to return to Legolas with empty hands, when the young man was only a few paces away and the horse was slowed to a halting walk. "We feared you lost."

"I am well," the young man said hoarsely with death written over every line and crevice of his grimy face. "I must go to Rivendell." The bundle he carried against his chest shifted limply with the wind and a few brown curls blew beneath the young man's whiskered chin.

"We will take you there." Glorfindel looked to the bundle, wondering. It was a Halfling – but how had one come to be in Estel's possession? The young man was so sober and a strange gleam lingered just beyond the candid emotions written over his face. "Do you have wounds or…?" He inclined his chin towards the hobbit's bundled form.

"He is dead. Killed by orcs three days ago on the plains." His dirty hand strayed over the blanket, patting what must have been the tiny creature's chest. The hoarse voice grated against Glorfindel's senses and he approached, offering a water skin.

"Drink your fill," he urged, "we will set out for Rivendell at first light." There was something wrong with the boy, he determined as the odd light flared briefly in the gray eyes. The once straight shoulders were now bent underneath an intangible burden. Glorfindel found himself helpless, not knowing how to help. But, he consoled himself, Legolas would set things to right.

"No – I must go to Rivendell now." Estel's voice was pained and for a moment it seemed as if he would plead; but, he held his tongue.

Glorfindel looked behind him at the calm, impassive faces of the elves and then back at the careworn young man. "Take some refreshment from our supplies and we will go to Rivendell."

Estel nodded, a relieved smile touching his lips but missing his eyes entirely and dying a prematurely as he seemed to dissolve to pathetic gratefulness. "Thank you."

**To be continued.**


	23. But Destiny

**Disclaimer: **I own none of the recognizable characters in this story—they all belong to JRR Tolkien and New Line.

**Wherever the Surge May Sweep**

**By Jame K. **

_**Chapter Twenty-Two: But Destiny**_

_We are but as the instrument of Heaven.  
Our work is not design, but destiny.  
- Lord Edward Robert Bulwer Lytton_

Any awe that Estel might have felt as he glimpsed the natural splendor of Rivendell for the first time was buried beneath the _fear_ and stirrings of anger coursing through his body.

He felt ominous – as if he alone was a juggernaut of destiny, rolling to inevitably crush himself and all that he held dear.

Glorfindel touched his arms and he jerked a little, just restraining himself from grabbing the Ring about his neck. "Legolas is yonder," the elven lord whispered, "just in the balconies above the spray of jasmine."

Estel looked with blind eyes, already feeling the gentle touch of Legolas against his mind. He did not block the loving push – but neither did he reciprocate. "I see. I will go speak to him." His eyes drifted and caught. "Who is…"

"That is the Lady Arwen Undomiel, the Evenstar of the Eldar." Glorfindel dismounted lying one hand on his trembling leg. "She has spoken of you fondly since your meeting in Lothlorien many seasons ago."

"Arwen," Estel murmured, caught in a dreamscape of many years past. "Arwen – yes. Under the golden boughs of Lorien, she sang and I came to her. I thought she would have forgotten me. She is as beautiful as I can remember."

"Long is the memory of the elves." Glorfindel tugged at the heavy body of Bilbo. "Let me take him."

Estel stared dispassionately at the blond elf before releasing the small body with numb fingers. The Ring throbbed against him and he wondered if it would burn through his tunic. "We will give him a pyre and set a memorial for him in the gardens. He has given me the keys to fate and more beside."

Glorfindel looked worried at the cryptic words, bowed mouth curving downwards, but Estel brushed him aside and dismounted. He stumbled on the steps – and he could not even tell if it was true clumsiness or a pathetic attempt to delay the inevitable meeting with the father of his heart.

He walked the long stairs and stopped at the jasmines just as Legolas came around the corner, face alight.

"Estel," he said gladly. "I have looked for your return in the East for many a day. I am glad to see you well."

"Well?" Estel had not meant to scoff but the word erupted from his throat anyway, tainting the air about him. "I am not well."

The fair face clouded and one slender hand alighted on his shoulder, concerned eyes canvassing his dirty, disarrayed appearance. "Are you in need of a healer?" he asked. "I will take you…"

"My wounds are not physical. They are infinitely mental in nature – emotional. I suppose that is what happens when you discover that your trusted one since youth has lied to you." The bitter words did not sound like they came from his own throat and Estel had the dreadful urge to find a mirror and see if he still possessed the same features – for that ghastly rage surely was not his.

"Lied?" Legolas looked confused and then a great sadness seemed to come over him as understanding brightened his eyes. "Oh," he said and bowed his head suddenly as if ashamed.

Two factions warred deeply with Estel's psyche – the urge to beg Legolas to make everything well – and the desire to scream his rage.

"Why?" he said at last, voice just below a shout – not caring of the elves that turned to listen. "Why did you not tell me I was the child of accursed blood? Why did you not tell me I was destined to fall? Why did you not tell me I was the heir of Isildur?"

Legolas placated. "Estel…"

"No." He withdrew, placing both hands against his chest – against the Ring. "No – I will not listen." His limbs shook and he felt as if he would fall. "I cannot listen to you. I am so lost… that is why they wished to kill me in Lorien – that is why you took me as a child when no one else would have me. Would not it have been better to let me die then – if falling into wickedness would be my fate?"

"You are not evil."

Estel looked at Legolas and saw the desperate belief and love in his eyes – the denial and years of passion the elf had poured into his defense. A revelation came, zinging deep into his soul. Legolas was… disillusioned. Legolas honestly believed in the goodness of his heart. Legolas believed Estel would not fall into darkness.

But, Legolas did not know. Estel had glimpsed the fear and anger within himself. Legolas denied the truth – but Estel would not. An overwhelming love suddenly filled him for the elf – an overwhelming gratitude at the unconditional love, support, and faith the elf had shown him – despite the betrayal the years of deceit. He sighed, deflating.

Legolas, he knew, would be devastated when the Ring made an end of the work in his mind. The Ring could not be destroyed and Estel could not hold onto to the light forever. They say that the Ring warped all – they said that friend turned into enemy. He imagined himself killing Legolas, imagined the elf's dead body lying at his feet – imagined a world where he despised the one who loved him. His eyes squeezed shut and he trembled all over, fingers whitening against each other. He _would not _see that come to pass. It was better...

"Legolas," he murmured with some difficulty. "The orcs came upon our party in the plains. The trinket the Halfling carried was too precious to fall into their hands, Mithrandir told me – so I was entrusted with Bilbo and the… the Ring, and told to fly to Rivendell." He swallowed.

"On the plains, we were taken by the wizard Saruman and Bilbo was slain. He told me of my destiny – my heritage – and allowed me to keep," trembling fingers worked the buttons on his tunic. "He let me keep the Ring. He said I would come to him soon enough so it made no difference." The Ring was freed from its cloth prison and Estel pulled it over its head, allowing the tiny piece of gold to dangle in the sunlight, glinting against the sun.

Legolas said nothing, but his eyes widened and his lips thinned drastically as the Ring swayed before his eyes, a deadly pendulum destined to bring destruction.

Dimly, Estel was aware of Glorfindel coming up behind him – but he did nothing and Legolas waved the older elf into stillness.

"So you see?" Estel's voice broke a little. "I know I will fall – I have felt the tug upon my mind. It whispers! It grows! And I… I cannot bear it." He keened low in his throat. "I cannot resist it and the pull grows stronger." His trembling grew and he could no longer lock his knees so he dropped to the floor. "This is the only way, you see? Middle-earth cannot fall into ruin and the only way I can save…" He clenched the Ring in one hand and watched through slitted eyes as Legolas delicately approached. He wished he had more time but…

Fear – fear of destiny, of Legolas's death, of himself – drove him to snatch the tiny knife from his boot and place it at his neck. He held it there, trembling and crying. Legolas's widened eyes haunted him, but he pressed more firmly still. A trickle of blood welled but he felt no pain – only the slight dampness as it rolled down his neck, soaking his collar. This was the only way…

"This is the only way," he said again as he closed his eyes, pretending to see the sweet, warm waters of the after-life, the white moon and never-ending stars – blessed serenity. "The only way – I will end the line and save the earth…" He drew a deep breath – his last, he thought sardonically – and prepared to shove the sharp, clean steel into his neck, reaching out through the bond to touch the bright mind of his teacher. Legolas would allow that, he decided; allow Estel to take in this last comfort as he moved from this life to the next. One last time to feel _how much_ he was loved and then…

But warm hands were there first, pulling at the knife. He wrestled with all of his strength, crying out for the cool peace of death – but Legolas had always been stronger. The knife was taken from him and he could vaguely hear the sharp clatter as it was thrown across the floor, spinning to rest against the wall.

Then Legolas had wrapped him in strong arms, pulling him into the warmth he had known as a child, and he felt some of the terror dissipating. "No, Estel," the elf told him, "there is another way. You must believe me. You are the strongest of the strong and there is another way. Please – if you have no faith in yourself, have faith in this – I will save you."

He opened his eyes and looked into the eyes of Legolas – warm, oceanic serenity. "You will save me?" he asked. "Even from myself?"

"From yourself." Legolas confirmed, tightening his hold and rocking slightly.

Estel pressed his face against the elf's neck. "Why did you lie about – who I am?" he asked pitifully, feeling tears sting against the back of his throat. The anger was gone – all he felt was the angst of a child. "I never knew – but I always wondered. My blood is cursed, Legolas."

"No – there is no curse," the elf said, a fey light gleaming in his light. "I did not tell you because the burden was too great in your youth – I should have told you before – but I wished to keep you free until the last."

"Free." Estel's gaze grew shadowy as the jasmines cast darkness upon his face. "I feel that I will never be free again."

They were both silent then as Legolas gently rocked the young man, petting his hair. Estel felt warm and safe as for the first time in days, the whispers of the Ring faded from his mind as Legolas's peace washed through his mind.

But one more thing needed to be said.

"Legolas," he whispered, feeling like a child sharing secrets before bedtime. He looked down and saw bloody cuts on Legolas's hands from where he had wrested the knife away from his neck – bright blood welling and dropping to the floor, smearing across Estel's tunic and arms. So bright.

"Yes, Estel."

"If I fall, I would like you to slay me." Estel drew a deep breath and continued even as Legolas stiffened against him, clutching him tighter. "I would rather I go to my rest by your loving hand then the blade of an anonymous foe – and I would rather be in forever sleep then destroying the earth that I now love. Please; this is the only boon I ask of you. You will be much more merciful then the ravages of evil." Estel closed his eyes, exhausted, falling forward to rest near Legolas's heart.

And right before he drifted into an exhausted sleep for the first time in three days, he heard Legolas's gentle acquiesce.

* * *

Estel lay sleeping in the next room and Legolas stood just outside the door, face drenched in the yellow sunlight, as Elrond paced before him. White, stiff bandages were wound about his hands, protecting the wounds he had gained in saving the young man's life. Legolas did not even feel the sting.

"He has the Ring – do you know what this means? All that we have feared is coming to pass." Elrond's dark gaze glowered in Legolas's direction before he spun to face the opposite wall. His stiffened back hurt Legolas more than his words.

"He wishes to destroy the Ring – not keep it for himself. My bond with him shows no guile, only deep confusion and fear." Legolas breathed through his nose, feeling the cool air slip down his throat. "The conclusions you jump to are premature, my lord."

"And you are too hopeful, my lord," Elrond said harshly, cheeks tightening. "Your faith in the boy will kill you."

Legolas paused, swallowing. "Let us at least give him a chance. We cannot very well kill him now. Lady Galadriel will be here within two weeks and the leaders of Middle-earth are already gathered. We will discuss the Ring and decide what to do. Estel will heed our instructions."

"The Ring will have to be cast into Mordor – you know this. It is a long journey that is not easily made, especially in these dark times. I fear Estel will fall under the sway of the Ring. It is better if we…"

"Do not say it." Legolas's face thundered and his blue eyes flashed. "Do not think it. Estel is strong."

Elrond came up to Legolas's face, their chests brushing. "And you said Arathorn was strong as well. Estel has already met with Saruman – whose to know if the wizard has not already affected his mind and turned him to the evil way? Mithrandir is gone – most likely dead – and our allies decrease by the day. If Estel were to join forces with Saruman with the one Ring, Middle-earth as we know it would cease to exist."

"Estel would never…"

"All people have some weakness. It is just a matter of exposing it."

Legolas turned introspective, mind quieting as he stared out the window. Bright light glittered against green hills and the rich brown of trees. Birds swooped across the sky and Legolas imagined he could see the Sea in all of its blue glory stretching into the horizon. Valinor tugged at his mind, an alluring siren that washed through his mind until he shook himself free.

"Estel will not be turned by the petty promises of Saruman. Mithrandir was indeed a grave and painful loss – but we will overcome as we have always done." He closed his eyes, seeing red as the brightness of the sun faded behind his eyelids. "We are a dying race, my lord, and this is a dying land. Let us at least give our successors a chance at a better life when we are gone."

Elrond moved softly, sinking into a brocaded chair.

"We go to a new world, my lord," Legolas continued in a whisper, "a world that we have only dreamed of on these murky shores. The mortal race does not have the promise of white shores – this world, as decaying as it is, is all they have. It is a world where they must cultivate with their own hands – and live with the consequences of their successes and follies."

"It is our world no longer," the older elf acknowledged. He sighed deeply and Legolas felt the weariness in the other elf's soul.

"Let us help them one last time, my lord," Legolas murmured. "I can feel Estel's mind as if it were my own – there is no darkness. Please –_believe_ me. Let us give them a beautiful world."

"A beautiful world…" Elrond moved one hand over the silky material of his robe. "A better world then what they have ever known. We will mourn for Mithrandir, Bilbo, and the fallen Dunedain for two weeks – then a council will be called and we will decide. Once our duty is done, then will we sail. Valinor calls – but let us stand one last time."

"One last time," Legolas agreed quietly, his own weariness stooping his shoulders deeply and thickening his voice. He reached across the bond, feeling the gentle peacefulness of Estel's sleeping mind, taking comfort and hope from the sereneness. "For Hope lives – and while Hope lives, there is a tomorrow and a tomorrow and a tomorrow."

They were in the gardens, grass brushing against bare feet and bright sunlight warming their bare heads.

Legolas stood at the pyre, feet braced against the wooden floor and hands tucked neatly against his stomach. He watched Estel with wide, keen eyes. In a moment of honesty that he admitted to none but himself – Legolas expected Estel to collapse. He had at his father's funeral and Elladan had been there… Legolas twisted his head and caught the gray eyes of the twin.

Their severe gazes met and Elladan nodded his head before Legolas turned back to the stiff, cold shoulders of his charge.

Estel did not notice the exchange and Legolas was slightly grateful for that. His eyes were fixed firmly on the pyre and the tiny figure that was draped against the gray stones, dry wood surrounding it. Legolas alone noticed the slight flinch when a breeze came and lifted the tiny curls of the hobbit into the air.

Legolas sidled closer, brow puckering and worried lines streaking through his eyes. "Are you well?" he murmured.

The young man nodded resolutely. He turned away and Legolas watched as his teeth drew blood from his lip when the first flames licked across the wood, catching on the fine robe the elves had made for Bilbo's funeral garments.

But when Legolas put a hand to his elbow, Estel roughly pulled away, drawing himself tall and straight like on of the mountain pines.

Legolas wondered if Estel thought himself to be alone in his pain. Did Estel believe he was the only one who mourned? There was no body to mourn – to burn – for the rangers or for Mithrandir. But they were dead and Legolas's memories of Mithrandir, of Halbarad, of all the other young men were going up in flames with Bilbo's tiny body.

The grief swept through him and Legolas swallowed, lowering his forehead. "Ai, Valar," he mouthed, tongue feeling heavy and dry. "Ai." He lifted his head and stared at the sky, throat clicking harshly as he swallowed.

Orange sparks rode the wind and vanished in the direction of the river. Layers that he had built around agony of the death of his father began to peel away and Legolas felt raw and exposed. If he strained his eyes at the sky – if he allowed the world around to blur – he could imagine that he was hundreds of years in the past and his father's body was burning. The smoke rising in the sky became the fires of Greenwood and Legolas felt very young.

His knees loosened and he swayed a little, the weight of the past crushing his lungs, ribs crumbling into the soft tissue.

A hand touched his elbow then and, when he turned, Elladan's face was bent near his own. "Legolas…" he murmured questioningly. Weakness made Legolas lean into the other elf's arms for a moment.

"Thank you – but I am fine." Legolas's mouth twisted harshly in a smile and he stepped away, standing under his own power. He locked his knees and twined his arms together, forearms pressed against his stomach. The blue of the sky and the green of the trees blurred together as he stared with opened eyes at the horizon. He only vaguely heard the closing words of the ceremony and the gentle lament of elven voices rise up, drowning the rushing of water and the slight whisper of the breeze.

They sang for Mithrandir, for the ashy remains of the halfling, for the rangers left for dead on the plain. Elves were starting to slip away into the woods, retreating to grieve privately. Legolas watched them go and followed, leaving Estel's side for the first time since he had arrived.

The dull colors of sunset began to glisten in the western sky, sweeping across the grass and muting the vibrant shades of nature. Shadows were stretching out from the white stone monument and the proud, straight nose darkened the mouth and chin.

Legolas stopped at the pedestal, head just coming to the statue's knees. He glanced upward, canvassing the familiar features in one glance. "I have been gone long," he murmured and sank to sit cross-legged in the grass. "I did not mean to be…" He blinked in the watery sunlight, as if expecting a reply from the stone statue.

Thranduil's foreboding mouth did not change its expression and Legolas rested his head in his hands.

"I long for the Undying Lands. My soul is so weary of this eternal struggle – I feel the darkness so strongly. It is… suffocating. I feel as if I have not drawn a breath since Greenwood was vibrant. This burden the Valar have laid upon me is too… monumental – but I cannot give it up. Do you understand?" He looked up, gaze clear and lips pressed together. "Do you?

"There is an obsession within me. I _need_ to see Estel through. It drives me and haunts me and burns me. I am so weary… But I know my peace will only come after I have fulfilled this task that the Valar have laid upon me." He sighed deeply, inhaling the woody scents and the evening breeze from the river. "I love him," he mumbled, voice turning introspective and gaze losing focus. "I intended to fulfill destiny and I gained a son and a friend… and now I see him slipping away…"

He fell silent and the back of his throat burned.

"Legolas?"

Silhouetted against the flaming sun, Estel stood there, head cocked just a little. Legolas swallowed and flushed a little as he realized how vulnerable he appeared, crouched before the statue of his dead father.

"Estel," he said roughly. He thought about standing but could not turn the thoughts into corporeal actions. The urge to say something was nearly overwhelming – and his lungs fluctuated in anticipation – but no sound came. "It is," he said at last but then could not think of an end to the sentence.

The young man stepped over to him, sinking into the grass, their shoulders brushing. "He is your father?"

"My father," Legolas nodded.

"I am finding now," Estel said, face turned away and draped in shadow, "that I hardly knew you at all. "I did not imagine you having a _father_ – I never really thought... Did you know that I used to imagine that you were my father? The boys at school – they used to speak of their fathers. I would tell them of you and call you father when you were not there. You were the sun, Legolas – invincible. But the sun sets."

Legolas sat dumbly, unsure and disbelieving. He opened his mouth to reply and then dropped his face as a memory came. Sitting in the warmth of the small house of Archet… Mithrandir, healthy and whole, sitting before him… and destiny so faraway but so close all at once…

"_I heard his first word. I taught him to walk. I spoon-fed him and I changed his diapers. I sat up with him when he had nightmares. No one," and Legolas's voice was as brittle as the dried stalk of a rose, "no one will tell me that he is wicked. And no one will ever take him away from me."_

_At the end of the impassioned speech, Gandalf gazed mildly at the elf. "You have become quite attached to him, I see. Have you formed a bond with him?"_

_Laughter seemed to not fit the elf's hard face but the sound came from Legolas's mouth anyway. "I have raised him as my own. Of course I have become attached to him. But have I formed a bond with him? No. The last mortal I attempted that with was Arathorn." He laughed again. "And we all know how that turned out."_

"_That was not your fault."_

"_Perhaps not but still I am reluctant to form a bond with him. I do not want to lose him. He is like my…" his voice faltered and Legolas turned his face to the flames, the muscles in his jaw tensing. _

"_Why do you not say it?" Gandalf leaned against the arm of the chair, his pipe dangling from his fingers. "The thoughts are clearly written on your face? Can you not speak the words?"_

"_He is like my son. As Arathorn was to me; so is Estel – only tenfold of that." Legolas sighed heavily. "And I am afraid of what I will do to keep him safe." His blue eyes were like bruises when they looked up at Gandalf. "I killed two men when he was just a tiny one – he was so young that he could not even walk yet. On the street they came upon us. I knew they were bounty hunters and I killed both of them and dumped their bodies in the river. I could not stand the thought of Estel being harmed."_

"_As would any father."_

The memory left and Legolas leaned into the shadows, leaned close to Estel, leaned so he could speak softly and still be heard. "Did you know that I called you my son? When Mithrandir came and you were still so small and your bear was your closest companion…"

Estel managed a brittle smile. "Cobi."

"Yes – Mithrandir came and asked me about you. I told him you were my son – my precious one. I told him I would let no one take you away from me." He thought about pressing his arm close about Estel's shoulders, drawing him to his chest as he would have when Estel was small – but hunched his shoulders inward at the last moment. "How can you express," he murmured, voice so raw, "a father's love for his son?"

Legolas looked down, staring at the green blades of grass, the white base of his father's memorial. He thought Estel was watching him – but he did not want to look up and risk Estel's cool gaze.

Then a warmth covered his side as Estel shifted to lean against him, head on his shoulder.

"Tell me about your father," the young man whispered.

"He was aloof. Much like Lord Elrond, I suppose. He loved jewels and sparkling, beautiful rocks. He had a temper and a brilliant mind. Many regarded him as cold and unyielding. But he loved me – I never doubted that through all the years he was alive. They tell me I did not recover for days after he was killed in the retreat from Greenwood. Elladan tells me I nearly followed him to the Halls."

"But you did not."

"No – I stayed."

Estel turned his head, skull pressed to the underside of Legolas's chin. His breath was puffing irregularly against Legolas's shoulder. "I wished I could have known him. There are so many people I have never met… my father, my mother…"

Legolas blinked, feeling the flash of epiphany seer across his brain. "Come," he said, voice rising in excitement. "There is something I must show you."

**To be continued.**


	24. My Days Go On

**Disclaimer: **I own none of the recognizable characters in this story—they all belong to JRR Tolkien and New Line.

**Wherever the Surge May Sweep**

**By Jame K. **

_**Chapter Twenty-Three: My Days Go On**_

_  
The world goes whispering to its own,  
"This anguish pierces to the bone;"  
And tender friends go sighing round,  
My days go on, my days go on.  
- Elizabeth Barrett Browning _

Estel followed in silence, eyes focused on the broad shoulders of Legolas. He kept wanting to speak – kept opening his mouth – kept reaching out – but each attempt disintegrated into uncomfortable silence.

Legolas turned, eyes brimming with excitement but Estel saw nothing but green bushes and the bright splash of red berries. A tentative smile was smeared over Legolas's face and his hands were a little out from his sides, as if beckoning Estel to come closer – to just break down.

The unintentional bitterness surged up his throat and poured out: "Why are we here – there is nothing."

"Come and see." Legolas reached out and took his hand, leading him through a break in the foliage. "Your mother," he said and Estel started at the word. "Your mother was beautiful and…"

White stone flowed from the grass, gracefully curving into a slim base and then the gentle curves of a woman draped in stone fabric. Her arms were cupped about her chest – as if she were holding a small child, but there was none to be found. Flowing, rock hair hung over her face but did not obscure the gentle sadness etched into the pretty mouth and large eyes.

Estel knew who she was. The seed of kinship bloomed in his heart as soon as he saw her – the instinctive understand that _this_…

But he asked anyway.

"Who is she?" he murmured, wanting to touch but reluctant to move closer to this nameless specter from his past. He had wanted so badly to _meet_her; but with this statue before him, he was divided. Part of him craved to feel the slight contours of her face – made perfect by elven craftsmanship. And part of him wished to flee. Legolas was… was… A little bit more of his childhood dreams died as Legolas answered.

"She was your mother. Gilraen." Legolas seemed to notice his lack of reaction and faltered just a little. "I met her when she was a little younger than you are now. She was beautiful," he said again."

"I do not look much like her." Estel felt his own nose as he examined the _woman's_ features.

"No – no. Your father gave you your face. Listen to me." Legolas turned, drawing his hands close to his chest. "Listen. I vowed to protect you before you were even born. Your mother… her love for you was beyond all reckoning. She made me swear to guard you as if you were my own. Your father was already…" Legolas seemed lost, gazing at the statue. "Please, Estel. I can tell you all you wish about her. But, please, do not think my vows of protection – nor my secretiveness about your past – were lightly made decisions."

Estel looked at Legolas and saw the quandary in his eyes. The begging eyes – pleading for Estel to understand, to accept, to love. His heart cracked a little, tiny lines running deeply across his emotions, and he firmed his resolve. He blinked, arms crossed about his stomach, hands clutching his hips.

His mother stared down – her sad, noble gaze mourning her son's death. And, Estel was dead. He had been dead since… since the Ring had been put about his neck. He was dead – but his body did not realize it.

_If I was brave, Legolas_, he thought, _I would flee into the woods and take my own life. But I am a coward – and the darkness is already too strong._ He bit his tongue, tasting blood and life. His eyes felt swollen and scratchy when he turned to look at Legolas.

Legolas was gazing at him. His lips kept wavering, halfway between a smile and a frown. He was pressing his hands together and his eyes were full of love and forgiveness – and hope and steadfast _blind_ faith.

And Estel knew that he would shatter that faith.

He breathed deeply, hand coming up to clutch at the Ring. Legolas stepped forward, gently probing through the bond, murmuring "Estel," so gently that the young man felt tears spring to his eyes.

"No," he said at last. "No." He choked a little on the deceit and his own need for Legolas's comfort. "No. I cannot… cannot…" The words tripped from his tongue and he stared at the ground, head shaking and tongue numb.

"Estel…" Legolas reached, his fingers brushing his upper arm.

"No."

"I will protect you," Legolas said, face eager and pleading. "I will save you. Do you not see? I have saved you all of these years. I will save you again. I will let no one take you from me. It is destiny."

Estel shook his head and did not look at his mother's grieving eyes. "No one can save me now." And he ran.

He looked back once, feeling as if he would never see Legolas again, and saw the elf standing next to his mother – their expressions matching – as the sun spilled its light one last time upon them.

The bond throbbed in his head, but he pushed it away, closing it tightly, as the Ring bounced against his chest.

And the darkness tore something deep within.

* * *

"He has been avoiding me," Legolas said plaintively two days later. "I sought to protect him – and I have driven him from me. He does not open at the bond – I cannot _feel_ him as I normally do."

Glorfindel nodded without his eyes meeting the elf's pained gaze. "He is distressed and confused; but his love for you runs deeper then you know. He dallies with Arwen these days and she speaks of the tumult within his soul."

"I promised him my help." Legolas's eyes were pained as he ran his hand along the smooth wood of the arrow shaft. His words were not bitter – just filled with the deep pain and fear. "And my love. He is my child and yet he turns his back toward me and covers his ears when I call his name."

After that first day, Estel had withdrawn deep within himself, closing his ears to Legolas's words of comfort. He had fled into the depths of Rivendell, Ring pressed to his breast and refused the company of anyone – save Arwen.

"He is afraid of himself – afraid of disappointing you." Glorfindel touched his shoulder but Legolas did not make a sound, hands running ceaselessly over the arrow. "There is much for him to fear now. Times are dark and ominous."

Wandering thoughts circled through his head and the younger elf seemed to drift away. "Is that our end then? To be constantly lost in fear of ourselves – the future – the Valar – our destiny? What is life but confronting our cowardice and overcoming?" His eyes were pained. "I run at the mountain only to slide to the base."

"This is not an easy thing," Glorfindel said and Legolas smarted at the serene wisdom the elf exuded – the heady knowledge resting candidly in the dark eyes.

"What is simply said – taxes the body. It is not so easy for me to look at a task and to fail each attempt to conquer. My days go on and on – I cannot throw myself at an insurmountable obstacle forever. The dreams of Lórien are dark of late and my fear restrains me." Legolas dropped the arrow into his quiver. "I have decided."

He waited expectantly for Glorfindel's response but none came.

"I have decided," he continued, "that Estel is a man." He took a small carving knife from his belt and scraped at imaginary imperfections in another arrow. White shingles fell beneath his fingers – snow drifting to the grass.

Glorfindel hummed wordlessly.

"Time," Legolas said resolutely in an effort to convince himself, "is what he needs. He must come to terms in his own way before he will accept my aid. The Council is to be convened within eight days time to discuss the Ring. There is," he hesitated here, battles raging within, "a scouting party leaving for the outer borders tonight. They will return on the fifth day. I will accompany them and Elladan goes with me."

"You leave Estel?"

"I leave him under your watchful eye and Arwen's capable hands – she loves him, I believe, as truly as she can in this mad world. He must arrive at the resolution in his own mind if I am to successfully help."

Glorfindel was quiet, eyes steadily on him. "I advise against your leaving."

Ire rose up in Legolas's chest. "There is no other way. Estel runs from me – he obviously wishes me gone for at least a short period time. I promised I would help him and if this is what he needs then," he paused, trying desperately not to reveal the pain this caused him, "then I will gladly leave. And if my safety is your concern, Elladan rides beside with the specific intent of seeing that I arrive home hale and hearty. There is no need to fret over that."

When Glorfindel once again withheld his acknowledgement, Legolas bit his lip and the arrow snapped within his hands, as his knife pressed to harshly on the slender wood. Did not the older elf see how much his leaving the man plagued his own heart? So much pain burst within him at even the thought that the child of his heart would wish him gone for any length of time. But, he loved Estel – deeply and truly – and he would give the man anything; even his absence if that was required.

Glorfindel nodded at last and bent to take the pieces of the arrow in his slender hands. "Your intentions are true but the path is deadly – I cannot see the end of the road and I fear for both you and the child." He handed the broken pieces to Legolas. "I will remember you in my prayers."

Legolas's smiled. "The Valar and Ilúvatar have always been with me – they have guided my steps thusly, why should they turn from me now?"

Glorfindel's gaze pierced him until Legolas was forced to turn away. "That, my dear friend," the older elf murmured, "is what I fear. The Valar in their infinite wisdom seem to be leading you down a dark road – a blood sacrifice may be demanded."

White leeched the color from Legolas's face and he shuddered deep within his marrow. "My blood will always be ready to be spilled for Estel," he said at last. "If Ilúvatar require my sacrifice, it will be given." He replaced his knife and pressed his palm to Glorfindel's fingers. "Keep your eye on him, my friend."

"I could do no less."

"And if," Legolas grew morose for a moment. "And if I never pass through the hallowed gate of Imladris again, tell Estel of my great love – and tell him Aragorn is his name – and tell him that he will rule justly."

"Aragorn," Glorfindel repeated. "Arathorn spoke the name in the days before his death. It is a good name."

Legolas smiled with quiet pride. "It is the name of a king."

* * *

Estel stood in the enclave, hands loosely grasping the railing and eyes lost in memories. The wind stirred, moving the flowers, his hair, and the white clouds across the sky. Against his chest, the dreadful weight of the ring clanked against his ribs, battering his heart.

Legolas was below him, tall and elegant as always, preparing his horse with the rest of the scouting party. Elladan, son of Elrond, stood beside him speaking gently in words that Estel could not hear as he prepared to depart as well. Legolas nodded slightly and checked his weapons, surreptitiously glancing up at the balcony.

"He is going?" he said quietly, eyes drifting down to the courtyard as Legolas swung onto his horse with Elladan beside him. "He did not tell me." Why should he? His subconscious asked. Estel had closed the bond soon after the day at his mother's memorial – unwilling to feel the weight of Legolas's fear and disappointment. And there were other _things_ occupying his mind now…

Arwen moved behind him, hands slipping about his waist and leaning her face near his left shoulder blade. "He will be back in five days. Legolas felt it best to give you space and time."

He blinked, turning in her arms to gently hold her. "Have I withdrawn from him – pushed him away – forced him to leave?" he asked wonderingly. "I did not mean to – I just did not know what to say to him. My days go on and I need him to guide me. He is my rock."

"He knows. He will be back – he even instructed Glorfindel to watch over you while he was away."

Estel gently moved away from Arwen's arms and returned to the railing, legs spread and hands braced upon the smooth wood. "This burden crushes my spirit. But I cannot give it up." He turned. "You see? I cannot destroy it – but I must somehow _conquer._ Bilbo laid the task upon my shoulders and I will be the one to see it through. If I allow someone else to take my place – then I will never know if I was worthy – if I can overcome the curse. Legolas think I will be king – but I cannot ever be king without conquering the Ring."

Arwen smiled gently but said nothing. "Legolas has faith in you and he will help you – journeying with you wherever you may go. And, the Ring can be destroyed. The Lady Galadriel and the Lord Celeborn are coming and my Ada will instruct you when the time comes."

Muscles loosened and Estel sagged against the railing, watching as Legolas rode from the gaze, glancing behind him one last time as he passed through elegant arches of Rivendell. "I am afraid I will lead to his death. He would die for me – and I am not worthy." All he had to do was open the bond and his mentor would know how he felt… but he could not. He was not the needy child clinging to the edges of Legolas's shirt any longer. He was a man – he _did not_ run to Legolas every time was afraid or in need of council. He owed that to Legolas and himself.

He felt Arwen's gaze, felt her small, delicate hand slip into his, felt her lead him back into the bedroom that had become theirs in the recent nights. "He loves you," she murmured directly to his ear, "as do I." He breath tingled across his temple and he leaned close to her.

Her hands slid up his shirt, gently working the buttons, smoothing her hands over his chest. She was so beautiful – serene, pale face glimmering in the afternoon sun. Her dark hair was slow, soft furnace against his shoulder. Estel wished he just bask in the sweet aura that surrounded her. But the Ring…

"Do you?" He caught her hands and held them fast. "Do you love me, Undómiel? Truly? We have just met and yet you take me to your bed and speak of your love. That is not the way of the elves, to fling themselves into an affair without years of thought. If we marry, you will be made mortal and pass the way of my people." He searched the soft blue depths of her eyes. "Arwen…"

She kissed him, gently, leaving the lingering taste of spring on his lips. Her eyes stayed on his mouth and she spoke softly so that he strained to hear the words. "I have been destined to love you, Estel, since the moment of my conception, Ilúvatar told me of you and our love."

A bit of fear and sadness crept through Estel's soul and studied the curve of her cheekbones with wide, fearing eyes. "Will we be like Beren and Luthien, then? Doomed to love and lose from the beginning? Will our days go by in a moment – never enough time to explore the depth and width of our love?" Estel brushed his fingers over her face, traced the fragile cheekbones, and closed his eyes, feeling the numbness seep through his veins. He imagined the day when death came for both of them – would they be afraid in that day? "Damned if we do – damned if we do not…" _They do not know where the second-born travel after death._

Arwen sighed and a steadiness seemed to come over her eyes. "Perhaps," she murmured, gently pulling her hands away and resting them on his shoulders before slipping down to take his fingers in hers, holding them gently. "Perhaps, in another world, we would have been them… But, in the here and now, I will sail across the Sea one day and leave you alone."

A cold pang darted into Estel's chest. "Arwen…"

"But in this world and at this moment," she continued as his shirt fell from his shoulders. "I give you this breath of time – I give you the gift of my Destiny for whatever time we may have together. I vow to you that we will walk the paths of time together until the Valar lead us apart – just as they led us together." She leaned close, kissing him gently. "My Estel."

Bitterness surged inside of him and Estel cringed back from her touch, hating the thought of her deserting him. His heart thumped and his fingers clenched on hers until the skin turned white. Was this fair? he wondered as his mind jumped around. Was this right that she would leave him for Valinor? If this was truly the love of Beren and Luthien – and the wicked, selfish element in his blood said that the doomed affair was a beautiful thing that he deserved above all – then she should not leave him for any reason. "You would leave me?" he hissed, jerking her closer. "And go to Valinor and leave me here to die?"

She struggled briefly – a butterfly beating its gentle wings against the sides of a glass jar – eyes flaring with panic. "Estel… that it the way of Ilúvatar – can you not see the rightness of my words?"

"You should stay with me," he growled, taking a sick delight in the way her face cringed at his cruelty. He did not want to hurt her, he told the protesting side of his soul, she just needed to understand that love is forever. Morality is not so heavy a price for the gift of true love. "If you loved me, you would stay."

Her face grew gentle, as if she saw past the cruel words to the delicate warping effect the Ring had upon his mind. "Estel, this is not you. Return to me, Estel, and forget the Ring for a time."

Estel shuddered to his very core, staring down at her while his nostrils flared slightly. The heat in his blood cooled, leaving him aching at his previous words and longing to beg her forgiveness. "It comes upon me and I cannot breathe," he murmured instead, "I cannot think beyond the power I could attain. Oh, Arwen, I could make you stay with me forever. Can you not see? If I took the Ring as my own, we could be immortal together forever – you would not have to leave. Our love would never die – we would not have to be doomed. My Undómiel. We could rule together… Our days would go in immortality with the Ring at my chest to keep me hale and hearty."

Arwen stared at him and he shrank beneath her wide eyes. "Estel – I do not want the world at our feet." She moved closer, lips brushing his, sharing breath. "I just want this moment together."

He slumped, once again drawing near the closed-off bond – but withdrawing at the last moment. Estel could now clearly see the fringes of darkness lingering in his mind and he did not know how to banish them from his soul. He could not open the bond and risk Legolas's disappointment over his failings – or worse, Legolas's condemnation. "As always, you are right." He breathed and smiled at her. "Help me to forget and be in the moment."

She smiled and complied.

**To be continued.**


	25. The Stars Rush Out

**Disclaimer: **I own none of the recognizable characters in this story—they all belong to JRR Tolkien and New Line.

**Wherever the Surge May Sweep**

**By Jame K. **

_**Chapter Twenty-Four: The Stars Rush Out**_

_The sun's rim dips; _

_The stars rush out: _

_At one stride comes the dark.  
– Samuel Taylor Coleridge_

Elladan knelt in the quiet of the forest, hands dipped in the stream and eyes wandering across the sky. The chill of the water rippled over the pale backs of his hands, brushing the edges of his sleeves as he filled the water bag.

Deep green and brown hues of the forest's tightly packed trees surrounded him, stretching high into the sky where they were backed by a canvas of the pale blue of dusk. The stream was clear and cold, a little blue streak painted deeply against the rich brown of the soil – a tiny offshoot of the much larger Bruinen. A bird called above – and the soft noises of the stream soothed the subconscious.

Legolas sat beside him, turning his gaze to the bleached sky as well. "What do you see?" he murmured, just loud enough for Elladan to hear. "What sight draws your eyes from this reality?"

Sinking to his heels, Elladan smiled and brought his gaze to focus on his dearest friend. "I see the hawk drifting north to escape the heat – I see the storm on the distant mountains. Thunder and lightning will be upon us in three days."

"Ah," Legolas said in return, his mouth frowning just a little and tipping back to rest on his elbows. His long legs stretched out before him, crossed at the ankles. "I see the blue sky and the promise for a lovely tomorrow – I see the hints of dusk above the trees, which means it is nigh time for the evening meal."

He was beautiful, Elladan thought, with the dusky sunlight skimming over the smooth plane of his forehead and dipping to illuminate the blond hair at his temples. Despite the pained lines about his eyes and the tightness of his mouth, Legolas was still perfect and he still stirred emotions deep within him. "Is it evening?" he asked after a time, withdrawing the water bag from the stream and tucking it between his hands. "We should make the Bruinen by nightfall."

"Hmm." Legolas closed his eyes and inclined his face toward a sunbeam, hair glowing yellow against the green and brown backing of the forest. "Do you think I was wrong?" he asked suddenly. "Do you think I was wrong to leave Estel? There was so much aching hurt in his mind – and he seemed to tremble within himself whenever I drew near. I could never bear to cause him discomfort."

Elladan folded himself to sit cross-legged against a near tree, hands held delicately in his lap. They were alone – the three other members of their party scouting along the southern path to the Bruinen while he and Legolas took the northern. In two days, they would meet at the ford and take the straight road back to Rivendell. "You could do no wrong," he said quietly. The forest, he imagined, agreed with him as the dark spaces between the close trees seemed to brighten for a few moments.

Legolas gave an open mouth smile, eyes still closed. "You inflate my self-worth every time you speak, my friend. One day, I will believe you words and fall on my face within days. _The mighty have far to fall_."

"And they fall harder than most as well." Elladan studied Legolas, memorizing the curve of his jaw and the straight line of his nose. A fitting compliment to the loveliness of the forest, he thought, then banished the sentiment as inappropriate. "Should we just camp here for the night?" he asked to cover his own discomfort when Legolas did not move for several moments. "You look at peace."

"My exterior acts as a foil for my interior." Legolas opened his eyes slowly and Elladan was struck anew by the deep color. "But we should rest here for the night. My spirit feels a little more at rest here – like this where I am intended to be for this moment in time. It is comforting.

"There is so much in this world to fill me with apprehension – but, now and then, the burden eases just a little and enables me to carry on." He rolled over, propping his chin on his hands and gazing steadily at Elladan. "Do you understand?"

"I believe so." Elladan interlaced his fingers. "Do not worry – Ada will not harm your Estel until the fate of the Ring has been decided. I believe even Ada fears that man at this moment. None of us truly know the… _power_ lying in the Ring."

Legolas was quiet. "Estel will not wield it. His heart is too noble and strong."

"But if he chose to…"

"Then none could stand in his way and Middle-earth would be doomed. The elves would flee to the Grey Havens, flying over the sea to Valinor, and men would be left under the oppressive weight of _my _Estel until the end of days."

"And you? Would you flee with us to the Undying Lands?" The question – the situation – was hypothetical but Elladan saw the deeper undercurrents of resolve in Legolas's placid face.

"I would stay – and I would take my Estel's life by my own hand, no matter how long it would take." The words were quiet, full of depthless courage and will.

"Then I would stay too," Elladan said with matching conviction. "You could not do such a feat alone. I would help you – then we would sail together once order has been restored to this land."

"No, after such a deed – I would find no peace in Valinor." Melancholia touched Legolas's eyes and he seemed to droop into the grass, sliding into the embrace of nature. "But why do we speak of such things?" he murmured, rolling to his back. "The fluidity of time allows no one to ponder too long on such things. This is a good place – let us speak of more mundane things then fiery death and destruction."

Elladan dropped his eyes to the pale blue stream – the gray rocks steady just beneath the surface – the subtle reflections of the colors of dusk in a deep pool not far away. "It is a good place," he said, finding the vein of their earlier conversation. "We can make up time in the morrow."

The dark-haired elf laid the water bag aside and leaned back into the dampening grass. "It is quiet," he noted after a long stretch of silence, feeling himself begin to slip into sleep. Relaxation and calm niggled at the edges of his conscience but something… a moment later, "too quiet." He bolted upright, hand brushing the long-handled sword at his back. "What do you hear?"

Legolas sat up as well; face grim as if he had come to the same realization only moments after Elladan. "Nothing." He closed his eyes, head cocking toward the river. "And then hoof beats – approaching from the north. There is a taint…" He shuddered, closed his eyes, and jerked as if he had been struck. "Nazgúl," he hissed. "So close to Rivendell?" He sprung to his feet, reaching for the covering of the trees.

Elladan heard the Nazgúl, smelled the rancid foulness of their evil. "There is something else," he murmured, his heart wildly shuddering within him. The darkness of the forest seemed so thick – he could make out the grayish brown of trees and the greenish black of long leaves. A subtle fear crept through him – the fear of the darkness – and a niggling terror on the outer rims of his conscious thought. Then a sick wave turned his face gray and dilated his pupils. "Saruman is here."

The wide, beautiful eyes of Legolas blinked at him before a murky sheen covered them. "We should ride for Rivendell," the blond elf said neutrally. "If we depart now with all haste, we should be able to mount some sort of defense before they are within striking distance – or at least give Elrond warning." He looked behind. "We cannot stave them off alone."

"Then flight is the best option," Elladan, murmured, already moving to his horse. "We can make Rivendell by the time the stars are out. "May Elbereth guide our paths this night."

The powerful muscles of his horse surged beneath him, carrying him into the darkening trees. Legolas was to his left, pale face luminous in the growing murkiness of the forest. "They have already crossed the river," he said, mouth barely moving. "And now they divide into three parties."

Elladan's heart seized within him at the tendrils of panic lacing Legolas's voice. "We will make it." He leaned close to Legolas, trusting his horse to navigate safely through the dense trees. "We will be all right." He wanted to say more – wanted to take the fearful lines from Legolas's face – but there was nothing.

"They come for Estel." Legolas's hands left the neck of his horse, seemingly unconcerned that he may be thrown at the break neck speed they were traveling at. "Estel must be kept safe." He held his hands up helplessly as if he would beseech the Valar to keep the man safe.

_He is just a man,_ something deep within Elladan snapped bitterly at Legolas's candid anguish. _What has Lórien done to make you love _him_ so much? Can you not see that your love for him will only lead to your pain… your death?_

_Do you think you are the only one who dreams with purpose?_

The slender, white moon, pale in the early evening sky, hung above them and Elladan spared a glance at the yellowing edges around the white globe. If night came and they had not yet reached the safety of the elven settlement, then they would be at the mercy of the Nazgúl. "It will be well," he murmured to Legolas, looking behind them as if he could see the Nazgúl pursuing closely. "It will be…"

He looked ahead and saw a dark shape rising dreamily from the trees – followed by another and another. His horse reared back, swerving away from the dark riders in an attempt to get to Rivendell by another path. But then two more riders appeared before them, hands glinting silver, cutting off their escape.

_How did they come upon us so suddenly?_ _Why did we not _hear _them?_

He heard Legolas's horse whinnying desperately and Elladan wrenched his neck to see the great horse of the other elf collapse with an arrow deep in its left flank. Legolas rolled smoothly from the horse, coming up with a small stumble as his horse lay heaving beside him.

"Elladan, go!" he shouted, drawing the elegant twin knives from his back. His visage was set and Elladan imagined him to be Legolas of Gondolin, scouting the dangers ahead as the elves fled across the icy plains after the fall of the legendary city.

"Legolas," he whispered, meaning the one of Gondolin.

The blond elf turned, dark eyes flaring brutally while his mouth seemed just a black slash across his face. "Go!" he said again and Elladan almost hurt at the vehemence of the word. "Take the word to your father of what has happened here in this place. Please, my friend." He seemed resigned to meeting his own death in this dark forest and Elladan's stomach rolled at the thought of the blond elf lying broken and bloody and _alone _on the forest floor.

But, in the end, he knew that Legolas was right – his duties were needed elsewhere despite the ache in his own heart. "Be strong, Legolas!" he called and then turned for the settlement, drawing up short as three more of the Ringwraiths approached from behind. His horse pranced, neighing loudly as the black riders drew close – the black, gaping maws of their face seeming to widen in glee at the nearness of a kill. Elladan looked and saw no escape – a deep sorrow engulfed him as the black creatures drew close. There was no way to flee from this confrontation and Elladan knew that soon, he would shrug off this mortal world. But he would not die atop his horse, seeking escape.

Hands gripping his sword, Elladan vaulted from the beast and landed beside Legolas, barely noticing when the horse whinnied shrilly and galloped into the forest. "There is no escape," he said redundantly as the Nazgúl circled them, black ghostly mountains in the darkness. "I could not leave you if I tried."

The doomed resignation flashing in Legolas's eyes hurt Elladan's soul.

"I am sorry," Elladan murmured – and he truly meant it – hand lifting to brush the mussed hair at Legolas's temple. He looked directly into the wild eyes, seeking to somehow comfort. "Glorfindel will look out for your… son."

And then white light pinned him, ripping into his eyes and blinding him. Legolas started in surprise beside him, instinctively trying to shield his eyes.

"Legolas – King Legolas of the ruined kingdom of Greenwood." The sonorous voice seemed to echo around them, enveloping the light in a thick, sulfurous evil. Elladan felt suffocated. "I have come for you on this night."

The white light bleached the dark brown of the ground a sandy color and Elladan found it easier to look there then into the dark void beyond the light. But when Legolas's name came from the darkness, he looked quietly to his friend – wondering and afraid.

Legolas's mouth was tight and his skin was ghostly while his cheeks were mottled red._Saruman_, he mouthed to Elladan and closed his eyes as if bracing for a great war.

Elladan looked into the darkness. "What would you have with him?"

There was no answer – just an intensifying of the blinding light. And, then: "Do you think even the elves can defend your precious child from me, Legolas? Do you not think they will gladly surrender him to me before their own settlement falls?" There was laughter in the deep voice. "Can you see him squirming beneath the weight of my magic as I rend him limb from limb – tearing his mind apart so that he is no more living then a blade of grass? Can you see those gray eyes blank and lifeless while the body still breathes? Mithrandir has fallen and if I kill you, there will no one left to die for him. He will be mine – your child will be destroyed by my hand."

Legolas's febrile eyes slipped shut and he seemed to sway under the awesome burden Saruman laid upon him. "What would you have me do?" he called into the light when his eyes had opened. His shoulders were straighter and Elladan thought he seemed resigned to whatever the fates had in store for him. "You obviously wish for something from me or I would have perished already. Tell me – what is your bargain?"

There was silence and the light faded slightly – Elladan could see the tall, dark shapes of the Nazgúl, the lighter shape of the wizard, and the white pinpoints of stars beyond them. _Ai, Elbereth, do you watch this too?_

"Come with me, little one," the wizard said softly, stepping in to the pool of light, staff clutched in both hands while his face fairly glowed. "Come with me to Isengard and I will depart peacefully from Imladris."

Elladan watched numbly as Legolas's hand clenched and the elf lifted his jaw.

"And you will return within the month to attack it again – why should I buy a month of time with my life?"

A peculiar shiver danced through the tips of Elladan's fingers as the white wizard smiled. "I swear to you that I will never set my might against Imladris again if you now come peacefully with me."

"And my friend? Can he leave this place unharmed?" Elladan's mouth worked silently as Legolas's face turned just a little so that his chin was directed toward him. Legolas should not be worrying about him right now…

The sides of the wizard's mouth crinkled upwards in a blasphemous smile. "I would have it no other way, your majesty."

"Then I will go with you." The nimble fingers loosened their death grip on the knives and Elladan felt cold and empty as the beautiful weapons and then the fine cloak the elf wore were passed into his hands. "Give them to Estel," Legolas said quietly, "and tell him of my great love for him and the pride I feel whenever I see him." His hand rested lightly on Elladan's wrist, burning like a brand. "Will you watch over him for me? I do not fear death – but I do regret leaving him alone to face this world. Tell Glorfindel… tell him to stand at Estel's coronation. Tell Estel, I will always be near, though incorporeal I may be."

Elladan nodded – still bound mute by his own fears.

And Legolas's smile was a burning ember in the night. "Then my death will not be so painful and I will rejoice every moment of the rest of my life that he is safe and well. Tell him that." He hesitated briefly then leaned forward, ghosting his lips over Elladan's forehead. "Think of me," he murmured in sotto – then he was stepping back into Saruman's cold embrace and Elladan was left alone.

He watched Legolas extend his hands to Saruman and saw the rough, black rope abrade the white wrists as he was bound and lifted onto a horse, Saruman mounting behind. Saruman smiled at the mute elf left alone in the middle of the forest and wound his arms around the elf's middle in a wicked parody of embrace. Their faces were close together, emphasizing the serene beauty of one and the lust-warped visage of the other.

Elladan watched – and wondered why he did not say anything; why he did not move or speak or _do something_. There were things – oh, there were things – he wished to say, to express, in this final time Legolas was alive before his eyes.

_You were my friend, _he said in his mind._ My dearest and most loved – and you will never know how much… I will watch over Estel for you. Not because I believe in him as you do – but because I loved you and I will not cause you any need for pain, even after death. Please – believe me when I say that Estel will never want for love or protection. I will give him all that I can – all that I would have given to you. Do not trouble yourself… please…_

Legolas smiled sadly, lifting his bound hands in farewell, and then Saruman's horse leaped away into the darkness of the trees.

Only when the Nazgúl and Saruman were gone did animation return to Elladan. He fell to his knees, hands dropping to grip his thighs as the knives and cloak fell dully to the forest floor. "Legolas!" he shouted into the starry forest, desperate for his voice to reach his friend's ears. Then, in a much softer voice, "I will sing of you in the Hall of Fire – and I will see you – if not on these shores – then in Valinor at the end of days."

He thought he heard Legolas's voice echo back a reply but could not be certain.

And, only then did he realize the wizard's hand in causing his immobile muteness. He felt the fading magic surrounding him and knew Saruman had kept him – not his own fear and paralysis – from comforting his friend in the final moments of their sojourn together. He screamed again – and then fell to weeping on the forest floor.

Legolas's dead horse was just a few feet away and Elladan stared at the sepulchral whiteness covering the large eyes – and the blood stained over the thick brown fur. He had never felt so alone.

Then, he climbed to his feet, taking the knives and cloak with him, hugging them to his chest. He turned, and began walking back to Imladris. The walk was long and his feet seemed to lag – no strength would come into his sinews and quicken his pace. He dragged himself through the forest as the darkness came more fully, eyes not seeing the brightening stars or the yellowing moon.

A daze seemed to have come over him, sheltering him from the roots that stubbed his toes or the brambles that scratched across his face. The trees mourned – he heard that – but Elladan refused to hear the gentle comfort the trees tried to afford him.

Finally, when the silver gray mists of morning laced themselves through the trees and the eastern mountains flushed pink, the white spires of Imladris rose from the woods like the mythical palaces of Eregion.

He stopped several paces from the gates, swaying with morning breeze and trembling with the cumulating emotions. His arms wrapped more tightly about his precious bundle, cradling it close to his chest as if it were a small infant. He staggered and would have fallen; but strong hands were there just then, bearing him up and then scooping him into careful arms.

Sunlight pierced the mist and he turned his head to look into Glorfindel's concerned eyes as the older elf began to gently carry him toward the gates, his bundle still clutched in his hands. The warmth from the blond elf's chest sunk into his damp clothes, searing his skin with a welcoming heat.

"Legolas was taken," he said dully as the mist circled over his head. His eyes followed the roving patterns as he tried to lose himself in nature's intricate dance. "Legolas is gone."

Glorfindel did nothing but tighten his arm about Elladan's shoulders. "Rest now," he murmured and Elladan felt absurdly grateful for the release.

"Tell Estel…" he whispered – but was asleep before he could finish.

**To be continued.**


	26. I See Fire and I See Rain

**Disclaimer: **I own none of the recognizable characters in this story—they all belong to JRR Tolkien and New Line.

**Wherever the Surge May Sweep**

**By Jame K. **

_**Chapter Twenty-Five: I See Fire and I See Rain**_

_I've seen fire and I've seen rain  
I've seen sunny days that I thought would never end  
I've seen lonely times when I could not find a friend  
But I always thought that I'd see you again_

_ – James Taylor_

In the coolness of the wee morning hours, Estel awoke in his bed. Silvery gray light bleached the color of his skin and emphasized the sweat on his upper lip – the tiny trembles running down his arms. The coverlet fell about his waist as he sat up, peering out the window as if he could see the source of his discomfort. The sun was beginning to rise, he noted dully, as his emotions roiled within him. Mountains were turning pink – the sky was lightening – mist was rolling through the valley. But…

Something had awoken him – something had turned his insides to water and had thrown his mind into chaos. He shivered, pressing his palms together. "Arwen?" he said into the dim, not turning his face.

She turned in the bed, reaching up, grasping his upper arm; he marveled at the ability of the elves to awake of their dreams within a moment. "Why are you distressed?" she murmured. "Has something…"

The niggling sensation turned into swamping emptiness and pain. He reeled, hands pin-wheeling as he tried to grasp the tendrils of a dream that was now gone. He gasped thickly, head drooping to his chest as the color was leeched from his body.

When Arwen spoke again – a whispered inquiry of his name as she sat up in the bed – he turned, his gray eyes reflecting the color of a stormy day in his dense panic. "I cannot feel him. I cannot…"

He stared at her as the incomprehension faded from her face to be replaced by serene worry – and he hated the look of resigned compassion coloring her deep blue eyes. "Legolas," she murmured.

The sound of Legolas's name turned his emotions inside out. The primal need to do _something _overcame the fear and clenched his fists tightly about the sheets. "He is on the scouting party," he said. "He will not return for three days." Estel reached inside, stretching to that place Legolas normally resided – and returning empty and cold and very alone. He mentally screamed across the bond, begging Legolas to hear him and answer, but there was no response forthcoming.

He looked to Arwen and felt unreasonable bitterness that she could be so _calm_ when Legolas was dea… gone. Estel could feel himself trembling, could hear the deep, fast beating of his heart in his ears, could taste the bile rising in the back of his throat. He felt energized and desolate all at once. He wondered if it would be more acceptable to sob or to flee – to rage or to weep.

Finally, he threw back the coverlet and leapt from the bed, hands fluttering frantically at his waist as he paced across the room and began to dress. Legolas was fine. The mantra echoed in his mind and did nothing to convince him. Something had happened to fill the bond with mist and shadow – Legolas was not dead. He would ride out and take the path the scouting party had – he would find Legolas – and he would apologize for all his silence these last days – Legolas would be _fine._

The knock at the door caused him to breathe deeply as his heart raced ahead, jumping to conclusions before his mind ceased its gibbering. He looked at Arwen, wanting answers – had she seen something in her dreams last night? Anything that might prepare him for what lay on the other side of that door?

At last, he moved, muscles creaking as if he were an old man. He placed his hand on the door, observing the minute scars and weathered spots on his fingers, and pulled it open. When the door was half open, he belatedly realized he had no shirt on and wondered if he could close the door and put one on.

_That would be_, he thought, _an acceptable delaying tactic._

But then the door was open and Glorfindel was standing there with wide, sorrowful eyes, mouth grim. There was no retreat from the inevitable.

"Good morning," Estel said, clinging to normalcy with both hands. "It is early for you to be…" Normalcy faded as his eyes dropped to see Legolas's white knives held in the warrior's strong hands. He made a valiant effort. "Legolas forgot his knives? That is – unusual." Tears colored his eyes a darker gray and he reached out with a shaking hand. "I will look out for them until he _returns_. He is very particular, you know, about the handling of his knives. He is fastidious in many ways and his knives are no…"

"Estel," Glorfindel said and Estel's valiant effort faded into nothingness. Estel looked at him and saw the regret – and how much his effort to deny and prolong the inevitable was hurting the other elf.

He sighed, wiping his hands over his face, and tried to accept. "He is gone then," Estel said and felt like a little boy – but the hem of Legolas's tunic was not there for him to cling to. The little boy began to tremble, seeking with both hands the familiar presence, crying out when it could not be found. "I awoke this morning and the bond was… wrong." The truth was painful to the back of his mouth and he rallied himself, blinking fiercely to dry the strange water clinging like a thick film to the tops of his eyes. "He is injured then, yes? Legolas told me that deep unconsciousness can cause a strange feeling in the bond."

Dimly, Estel noted that Glorfindel was trying to speak to him, eyes pleading with him to_not make this harder than it has to be _but he was not feeling merciful. "Which healing wing is he in?" he asked, taking the knives against his chest and beginning to step around Glorfindel. "He taught me much of the healing arts so I can help…"

"Estel, Legolas was taken."

He stopped, leaning against the door frame, feeling the cool morning air on his chest. The word choice… those words were not… expected. Those words left room for hope – left room for something besides death. He felt angry at Glorfindel for fanning the hope within. "Taken," he murmured, suddenly eager to strip bare this charade of happy endings. "To the Halls of Mandos?"

Glorfindel shook his head. "Perhaps – but more immediately, he was captured by some foe during the night. Elladan has returned alone – I found him by the gates. He lapsed into unconsciousness and did not say more than that Legolas was taken by the enemy soon after dark fell."

He heard the words – and his heart leapt within, hope roaring through his veins, sparking in his ears. He heard the noise of many waters – until he retreated back into the darkness of his own soul. Sanity wavered on the brink and if Estel hoped once more – and then lost once more, his mind would fall. He could _not_, he would _not_ give into hope. Legolas was… _taken_.

Vaguely, Estel watched as Arwen came near, taking his hand in hers. "You must be strong, Estel," she said, sounding very wise. Then she turned from him. "Elladan – my brother? He is well, then?"

"He is exhausted and heartsick – but he is well." Glorfindel's face was tragic in its depth – emotions threadbare after thousands of years of use. But Estel was grateful that the elf's chin was steady as he stepped aside to allow Estel and Arwen to pass by. It did something to calm his humanly frazzled nerves. "Lord Elrond is with him now and I was sent to retrieve both of you – and bring you the news."

Estel's mind thrummed loudly – he imagined he could hear the faint buzzing, the turning of wheels, the clopping of gears. There was something soft against his palm _Arwen's hand_ but he did not notice.

_Where have I gone?_ he wondered. _I was here – and now I am not._ He had been so strong before – so strong. He had denied the truth with an upheld chin and a faithful heart. Now he felt inanimate – broken – lost – crushed – any other word his mind could conjure. Legolas always said that he had a good _wonderful_ imagination.

He was walking – walls were passing – but he was not conscious. _I have gone_, he decided dreamily, _to where I was when I rested on the Gladden Fields. Legolas was there, a river running past. I caught a fish and Legolas cooked it. He told me that if I was to catch and kill an animal, I was to always make sure to use every part of it for the nourishment of myself, others and the earth._

_When they have killed you, Legolas, will they eat you? Will they use you to nourish their bodies – and then revitalize the earth?_ He shuddered, imagining Legolas's long limbs being torn, roasted over a fire, and consumed by orcs – the ashes scattering in the breeze and growing with the flowers.

When he came back to himself, a blanket was draped over his bare shoulders and he sat in the healing wings, staring out the window.

Elrond was there, white hands fluttering at the level of Estel's eyes as the elf discussed quietly with Glorfindel. Arwen was there, sitting beside Estel and gently rubbing his shoulder even while her gaze drifted continually to the white figure of Elladan, lying very still and wax like on the bed.

"My brother," she said, with some difficulty, "loved Legolas."

"The trick," Estel said wryly but there was no hint of unkindness in his tone, "was _not _loving him. His personality was very… effusive. One could not help but befriend him." He smiled tightly, lips drawn close his teeth, and then grew pensive. "There was no reason to dislike him – so love was a natural, albeit unexpected, conclusion to any friendship with him."

"No," she said gently. "Elladan _loved _Legolas – since they were both small. If Legolas would have permitted, I believe they would have been mated."

Estel stared, silent and agape, for several moments and then something twisted within him. "Legolas had no interest in romantic entanglements," Estel said hotly. Legolas loved Estel – and _only _Estel. Every iota of feeling within him balked at the though of Legolas giving any of that love (even in the romantic sense) to someone else. He seethed even while part of his mind called his jealousy unreasonable. "Legolas was…" _mine._

Arwen blinked owlishly. "Peace, Estel." She seemed hurt.

He turned his face away, cradling his skull in both hands. Vaguely, the knowledge of his paradigm shift in character came to him – and then faded. "I am sorry. I am just so… lost – without him." He cleared his throat and bowed his head. If Legolas would love Elladan – and Elladan would make Legolas happy, Estel knew he would be happy as well. Legolas deserved to be loved deeply and completely – why did his heart rebel at the insinuation of Legolas's love being turned toward another? "I have never truly been separated from him. I am what he has made me."

"Every child is separated from their father through the course of time."

Estel jerked, body tensing as if drawn tight on a bow. "He is not my father." _And I am not worthy to be his child_. He turned his face away, drawing his hands tightly against his stomach.

Arwen spoke again, voice tender, but it flowed over his head. He was a rock at the bottom of a stream and the world flowed over his head, blurry and indiscernible fragments of color. Her small cool hand felt uncanny on his shoulder and he shrugged it away, toppling to lean against the wall.

"I am tired," he said and closed his eyes, though he could not hear his own voice. "I am tired." Tight muscles loosened and he was in his bed at Archet – Legolas was drawing the covers against his chin. There was no worry or pain…

His mind settled against the bond, mental fingers curled around the warmth and head resting on the softness of Legolas's memory. He was again the rock in the stream – the world may have been blurry, but he was immovable and untouched.

He was… alone.

* * *

Legolas, in an effort to be pragmatic and emotionally aloof from his predicament, imagined he would be killed within moments after leaving Elladan in the silent, dark woods and did not allow himself to consider any alternative to his execution or think a moment beyond that seemingly inevitable event. 

He imagined Saruman would stand above him while he would be made to kneel on the ground. A sword would be brought over his head, barely glinting in the upper corner of his vision. He would hear the slight whistling as the sword fell – and then nothing, just the ache of unfulfilled destiny as his head was taken clean from his body. In preparation for the event – the moment where his mind would vanish from this realm – he had subtly closed the bond with Estel. He could sense the link lingering in the nether regions of his mind – but there was no warmth, no love, none of the things that he had come associate so strongly with Estel's young mind.

It would be, he had imagined, a great relief to be able to lean on Estel's presence through the last moments of his earthly journey. But the damage of feeling his death in such an abrupt, unplanned for matter was not something Legolas would lay upon Estel's already troubled mind. When death came, he planned, the bond would be tightly shut and Estel would feel only a faint echo of Legolas's death – he would not be destroyed or traumatized – he would _well_.

But when the trees vanished into the early morning mist behind and the mountain range loomed blackly ahead, Legolas realized the pragmatism he had forced himself into was nothing more than a farce. A chill blanketed the sputtering flame in his chest. He would not die in the woods and that, perhaps, frightened him even more. Death was never to be longed for; but if that conclusion seemed undoubtedly impending no matter the circumstances preceding, was not the tenable position to wish for a pain-free death rather than the agonizing one?

"Our path is leading us to Isengard," Saruman said, lungs rumbling heavily against Legolas's upper back. "Bid farewell to your forests, son of the woods, your eyes will not dwell on the trees again."

Words did not come and Legolas searched for numbness in the frenetic activity of his mind. Damp air surrounded him and cooled his mouth, tiny bits of dew against his cheeks. He wondered if he would ever feel the early morning dew and see the sparrow flitting passed. He wondered – and then stopped and returned to just being pragmatic.

Silver gray tendrils of mist began to dissipate as the altitude increased and the cloud was left behind at the very base of the mountain, lingering like a great blanket over the earth. The sunlight burned, stripping the dew from Legolas's cheeks and clearing his eyes. Warmth loosened his joints and he found the strength to enjoy what he was sure were the last few moments of sun he would enjoy on the corporeal, earthly plane.

_What a bright world._

He stared into the sun and did not close his eyes. "When our bargain was struck," he said at last, head tipped to see the misty valley below, "I did not imagine the sun would again touch my face." His tongue felt heavy even as his tone grew wry. "Your generosity truly surpasses all reports."

"Rumors of my penury were greatly exaggerated. Enjoy the warmth on your face, my king, for soon only the flicker of a few scarce candles will light your face." Saruman's tone conjured up the memories of the final siege against Greenwood – the tales of the elven prisoners of war taken to Dol Goldur by the Witchking and tortured to death with the help of Saruman. He remembered the elves on the most dangerous of missions taking tiny vials of poison in their pockets so they would not be made to withstand the tortures. He remembered the days when a quiet, peaceful, relatively painless death was all that anyone could ever hope for.

The carefully shuttered box of Legolas's deepest fears began to seep putrid fluid that poisoned his thoughts with absolute panic. Dank, small spaces with no light or warmth – all that is good and healthy being forever stolen from him. The sepulchral dread weighted his limbs – but he lifted his face to the sun and did not think of it.

Estel would be well – and the thought alone lifted the fear from his limbs and caused his heart to thrum with joy. Arwen, Glorfindel, Elladan – they would all care for his child. The darkness would never touch the young man's silver eyes. Evil would never sallow his cheeks. The Ring would be destroyed and Estel would fulfill the prophecy. The cadence of time would not cease for the lack of an elf.

Legolas had taught Estel – he had raised him. His actions would never be lost from the history of time, but perhaps it was now time for the torch to pass on – the banner to be handed over – the quest to given into another's hands.

And, with the sun was on his face and with the mist draped landscape of Middle-earth panning beneath, he could imagine that this _was_ his destiny. Perhaps the end of his story came now. He had dreamed of the coronation – of the dark haired young man receiving the crown of Gondor. But he had never seen himself with Estel subsequently to those events. Perhaps, the Valar would allow him to be there in spirit once his corporeal body had faded.

Destiny existed beyond this earthly plane. Legolas would allow himself to exist only as a dandelion on the breeze – a fleck of seaweed in a storm – and whatever the fates had in store, he would bend himself to.

But, then, when his gaze drifted upward and he considered himself – when he looked passed the constraints of fates and destinies, he saw the bone deep ache of a father who would never see his child again. He would never see Estel grow a day older or smile or laugh – or anything ever again.

_They do not know where the second-born travel after death._

Nothing is certain.

He was, Legolas reminded himself, doing this for Estel. Estel would live now – Estel would be strong now – Estel would be king now. And that was, in the end, the only thing that mattered.

The sun soaked into his skin and he stored the memory of the brightness near the memory of Estel's face. He did not allow himself to ponder the pain his physical body could withstand before death came. He did not draw in his mind a coffin made for one that was still alive. He lingered only in a place of serenity with Estel, the sun, and the fulfillment of the fates.

* * *

"Did you dream of Legolas?" 

Elladan felt woozy, head lolling on the pillow. Estel's face loomed close and he could count the tiny, scruffy hairs on the very human chin. He dreamed of wetness across his face – of Legolas laughing as the skies showered him with life. The image faded and he forgot. "What…"

"Arwen tells me you love him." Elladan's vision was filled with bearded cheeks and white teeth. He could see the tongue forming the individual letters. "Do you dream of Legolas when you sleep?"

_Legolas_… His sleep had been dark, warm and comforting. He wanted to tell Estel that the Eldar do not dream arbitrarily – Lórien gifted them with dreams and they wander their mind in peace until then. But he felt so shaky – he could not think…

He and Legolas had been in the woods. Legolas had been so beautiful. They had talked of Estel. And, then.

Memories crushed his mind and he jolted on the bed, hands pressing firmly at his sides. The sheet was thick and confining – the mattress was sucking him down – he turned in the bed, reaching for Estel. "Legolas," he gasped. "He was taken." Glorfindel had to be there… Glorfindel had to go into the woods, perhaps Saruman had already discarded Legolas's body after the (his mind trembled) execution. A proper funeral was needed – Legolas would not be left in the woods as carrion. "Glorfindel?" he breathed, struggling to see over the young man's shoulder.

Firm hands burned his shoulders like hot wax as Estel lifted him halfway from the bed. "Where is Legolas?" he cried and Elladan was shocked at the choked, tortured sound Estel made right after the words. Was he crying? "Please, tell me."

The dark wood and the blinding light shadowed Elladan's eyes – he could hear the steady footsteps of Saruman and the deep, ugly voice calling out to Legolas. "Saruman," he said lowly. "Saruman. He took him. I was held in place by some foul magic." He remembered the dreaded helplessness as Legolas was taken from him. "Held in place," he said again.

The door banged and Elladan's trembles began anew. But Glorfindel was there, standing in the doorway with his ada close behind – and there was Arwen – he needed to tell them. "We must go to the woods," he murmured excitedly. His thoughts were jumbled and he felt incoherent – but there was a desperate need to _speak_, to explain. "They took him from me and I could not stop them. I must take care of him now – even though he will not know it is I who performs the deeds. I must wash his body and lay him on his pier…" The words tumbled away as Estel's silvery eyes appeared before him.

Protect, Legolas had said. Legolas had told him to protect Estel and to tell him…

"_Tell him of my great love for him and the pride I feel whenever I see him." _Legolas's hand seemed to burn on his wrist, branding him once more as the soothing, steady voice of the _departed_ elf flitted through his waking mind. He touched the spot, remembering the comforting weight and heat of Legolas's fingers, and found the air growing thin around him.

His ada was there then as he began to gasp, gently taking his shoulders and lowering him to the bed. His forehead was cold and his brain was hot – he could not seem to _breathe_. The gentle hands soothed his forehead and Elladan felt the emptiness of his heart and mind. But, Estel…

The young man was being pulled from the bed by Arwen and Elladan reflected that they were beautiful together. Dark hair meshed together against brown and white skin – mortal and immortal. He was fighting Arwen's grip, eyes locked on Elladan's chest, and chin trembling in a desperate need to _know._

Was this love?

"Estel," Elladan called and felt the palsy flood his arm as he reached for the child of Legolas. His arm wavered in the air, fingers dangling from his weak palm. "Estel." He needed to tell Estel. Legolas's blue eyes warmed his soul. He would care for Estel now. He had promised – all of his love…

Estel's rough, calloused hand squeezed his own, stilling the trembling, as Elrond moved aside. "Elladan," he murmured and his voice seemed so gentle now. He came close to the bed, resting Elladan's arm on the mattress, stroking the whitened knuckles. "Elladan, please, tell me of Legolas. Our bond is tightly closed and I cannot..." Estel's words blurred together and he sagged closer to Elladan's face – the elf could see tears filming across the eyes – gray water sparkling as the sun touched it.

His head felt airy and Elladan's mouth was drying as he sucked desperately for enough air to quell the dizziness. "Estel," he whispered, stretching his neck so his mouth was near the boy's cheek. "Legolas loves you and whenever… whenever he sees you, he is so proud of… of you." His vision seemed to gray and he clutched at human's hands tighter. His heart throbbed – he must fulfill his duty – he must erase the lines of fear and doubt from Estel's face. "He will be with you when you dream."

"He is dead?" The lips of the human tightened and Elladan frowned. The pain seeped from Estel's heart into his own. No! He had to take that pain – not give it.

"Saruman took him into the woods. There was a bargain and Legolas accepted," he said but he was not sure that they understood him – the words sounded so garbled to his own ears. Thoughts were smearing together in his mind and he could not find the breath to repeat his words. He was just so exhausted. Estel looked so lost and Elladan felt as if he had failed.

He clumsily withdrew his hand from Estel's and patted his shoulder. "I will take care of you," and the words were slurred as his tongue slowly numbed inside of his mouth. "I promised." Was Legolas dead? He thought so. When Legolas was carried away on Saruman's horse, there had seemed to be no other viable outcome that Elladan could foresee. But, something inside of him protested against such a despondent outlook – something inside dared him to hope…

Ada was there again, tucking him against the pillows and touching his wrist where Legolas had placed his hand in the night. Elladan knew his pulse was throbbing. "Rest now," Elrond said and Elladan could barely hear the words. His ada's eyes shone with seriousness and concern though, and Elladan began to fear for himself. He could not understand this weakness coiling through his muscles and slowing the thumping of his heart – perhaps if he rested for just awhile…

Estel moved away and Elladan closed his eyes. Why did they all seem so serious? He gasped again and his heart seemed to throb faster. Elladan thought he heard rain – but it was just the blood rushing in his ears. Estel's first question came back to him, drifting through the mayhem of half-formed thoughts.

"I dream of rain," he slurred as the imaginary droplets beat upon his face – Legolas's upturned face was streaked with water as he _laughed_. "Legolas loved the rain." And then he fell asleep once more.

**To be continued.**

**_Author's Note_: **There's only going to be one more full chapter and then an epilogue and then one chapter of author's notes. I hope you all have enjoyed so far!**  
**


	27. Withered Winds

**Disclaimer: **I own none of the recognizable characters in this story—they all belong to JRR Tolkien and New Line.

**Wherever the Surge May Sweep**

**By Jame K. **

_**Chapter Twenty-Six: The Winds Were Withered in the Stagnant Air**_

_The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,  
The Moon, their Mistress, had expired before;  
The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air,  
And the clouds perish'd; darkness had no need  
Of aid from them--she was the Universe.  
- Lord Byron_

Denethor, successor to the Steward of Gondor, held his hands at his waist and listened as anger grew in his heart.

"There is terrible news," the elf before him said, "from the healing wings. Elladan, child of Elrond, has been brought in with terrible wounds. The council is to be delayed until the arrival of Lothlorien."

"Lothlorien?" Denethor moved his jaw and went to the window, eyes skimming over the silent form of the Rohirrim ambassador seated beside the window. "The situation of people grows bleak and we are delayed because the stripling of Elrond's son has been injured." He turned quickly, ankle creaking under the weight of his rage. "My people are dying!"

"The sire of Greenwood, King Legolas, is believed to have perished in the woods at the hand of the wizard Saruman. Much darkness lingers in the world now. Lord Elrond believes it would be most prudent to…"

"Two elves die and Lord Elrond speaks of prudence. My lands are seething with this growing darkness and the council is delayed until the arrival of Lothlorien." He paced, hands gripping the sides of the robe. "Elves may have infinite time to play their games of war – but men do not! Only a breath is our lives and in those breaths we must do all we can to secure the _future_ for our next generation."

Serenity blanketed the elf and he tilted his chin. "You may address your concerns with my lord, Elrond. I assure you all the commodities you may need for your extended stay will be provided for you."

Denethor sucked in a great breath and turned his head quietly to the Rohirrim ambassador. "What say you? I say the kingdoms of men would be better served by actions then lengthy councils and hours of pointless talks that lead to nothing but more discussions. Action must be taken with all haste."

The younger, fairer man straightened his head from where he had been studying his weapon. "Rohan is the strong arm of Gondor. We will stay true to her decisions. We will follow you, my lord."

"Then it is decided." Denethor spread his stance and tilted his forehead. "Gondor and Rohan will fight alone because the elves wish to linger with their head buried in their safe sanctuaries." He strode to the wardrobe, tugging out the saddlebags he had brought with him and tossing them to the bed. "We will defend our people with our blood. Tell my lord Elrond that we will be leaving with the light."

The Rohirrim stood and gathered his own possessions, eyes not even drifting toward the elf still standing by the door.

Estel stood by the gate, black lashes clumped together from his recent tears, and watched in confusion as the Gondorians and Rohirrim mounted their fine beasts and prepared to depart. "You are leaving?" he asked, tongue brushing numbly against his teeth. He glanced vacantly around the courtyard of Imladris. "You will fight alone?"

"If the elves will not help, we have no choice." Denethor smoothed his hand over his horse's neck. "You should come with us. Those who measure their life in moments do not belong with the immortals."

The wind brushed passed Estel's face and he shook his head. "They are my only hope if Legolas is to be returned to me."

Denethor shook his head. "Mark my words – they will hesitate in the striking. They will seek diplomacy over the necessary action. Estel, they will not help you with Legolas. They would see him die rather than leave the safety of this," the older man gestured to the clear waterfalls and green sloping valleys, "paradisiacal haven. Legolas will die before they set their might against Saruman."

"I cannot believe that." And Estel's heart stuttered within him as he contemplated the truth of the man's words. He bit his lip and glanced quickly away, the apprehension seeding and growing deep within him, the Ring throbbing dully and consumingly against his chest. "I must hold faith that…"

The Gondorian shook his head and laid his hand on the broad shoulder. "You will see, my young friend."

Bright sun swept out from behind the gray clouds, burning Estel's eyes and he shut them. He stepped backward, swallowing with some difficulty. "I wish you," he murmured when he had opened his eyes, blinking in the brightening sun. "I wish you the best of luck in all your endeavors."

Denethor nodded, dark greasy hair swinging about the curve of his jaw line. "And I will remember your mentor in my prayers. I know that he is close to your heart." He mounted the horse, turning his head to the West. "You will always be welcome at the White Tower."

Estel heard his words even as his mind was preoccupied inward. He was looking at the sun – but the light did not burn his eyes. A mist seemed to be lifting from the bond, receding into faint shadows that could be easily brushed aside. Estel reached out eagerly, his mind's eye glimpsing the bright light of Legolas.

He was alive. _Legolas was alive._

_Legolas!_ he called, eyes bright, unblinking, and intense. _Legolas!_

"Estel," Denethor said but the voice was underwater, across the plain, in the sky – and Estel did not listen.

The shadows vanished and Estel plunged into the bond, eager to feel the warmth and acceptance of his guardian. He reached out and…

Pain swamped him.

Corporeally and mentally, he staggered. Dust seeped into his palms, creeping up his sleeves, when he fell to the ground. The tang of blood rushed through the gaps between his teeth. Thoughts came – tumbling, crowding, agonizing. The Ring was freezing, sucking the warmth out of his body in painfully pulses.

_Stay away!_ Legolas cried out as if his mental teeth were clenched against the pain. _I beg you to leave me be!_

Estel shook his head and cried out between clenched teeth. Stubbornly, he braced his hands against the dirt and dove back into the maelstrom. Legolas was in agony and Estel would not leave him alone with the pain.

The suffering slammed into his ribs, knocking the breath from his lungs. And he absorbed the pain, accepted it, reveled in it – knowing that this was pain he was taking from Legolas. _This _was pain that Legolas would not need to bear. He was only vaguely aware of his physical body lying prostrate in the dusty courtyard, muscles jerking as if in seizure when the mental pain was manifested physically.

He opened his eyes, unable to focus but making out the dark blur of Denethor's worried face.

_Why?_ he pleaded, eyes closing again as he pressed deeper in an attempt to discover the source of the pain. _Why are you hurting? Why do you shout in pain? _He shoved his strength through the bond, willing Legolas to accept it. His mind was on fire, Legolas's agony searing through every part of his brain. Fingers were digging through head, squeezing gray matter like mud and then tossing it aside.

_Be strong. I will come for you_. _Do not fear – just stay alive for me, Legolas. _ He hesitated as the pain intensified for a moment. _ I love you._

Legolas's deep moan echoed in his psyche, echoing defeat and weariness. The pain was growing and Estel could feel Legolas falter just before the elf slipped into unconsciousness.

The agony drained partially away and Estel was left flopping like a fish on the dirt ground as he struggled to breathe with his suddenly heavy lungs. He groaned deep in chest, twisting his head to the side. The dirt and sky melded and swam – blue and brown meshing in a psychotic spin that fried his eyes. Bile rose up and he gagged a little, trying to swallow the mess, just before heaving his breakfast onto the ground. He could not move after that and lay, vomit under his chin, blinking woozily at the blended dirt and sky. Then he shut his eyes and all was quiet for a moment.

When he opened his eyes, Elrond was there, kneeling over him, hand on his forehead. He did not remember for a moment – just seeing the aching brilliant sky and feeling the soft, dry hand. Then the darkness and pain gushed in through his ears.

Estel jerked and snatched at the elf's wrist, fingers leaving white imprints. "Legolas," he gasped, mouth working slowly, heavily. "He is alive and he is in pain. Saruman…" His stomach rolled and he vomited again, hands trembling as the mess covered his chin and chest.

"Easy, Estel," he heard Elrond murmur and then he was lifted into the air. The pain was singing through his head, making every nerve tingle.

"We must save him," he murmured and then the blanket of sleep fell over his mind and the rest of his thought was lost.

* * *

The fading sunlight beat one last pulse upon Legolas's upturned face – and then the elf was submerged in the darkness of Orthanc. Dank, cool, and wet air seeped across his face and leadened his tongue.

"This, your majesty," the wizard announced, nose silhouetted against the ugly, orange glow of a torch as he turned his neck to face Legolas. "This is Orthanc. I am afraid it is a bit different then the elven strongholds, but we will have to make do."

Legolas fought to breathe slowly as he was dragged deeper into the torch-lit caverns of the tower. Hard metallic clanking from the chains about his wrists and ankles grated against his nerves and he shuddered, remembering when the cold steel was locked about his skin. "It will do fine," he murmured, fighting to maintain his façade of calmness. "Just fine."

Orcs walked on either side of the elf, grasping dark chains connected to the ones about Legolas's wrists and ankles. They seemed to delight in yanking unnecessarily hard on the bitingly cold metal. Legolas felt the bright glow of his spirit suffocating with the proximity to their dark madness.

"I did consider the difficulties your folk have with stone and dark. You will be pleased to know that I took extreme measures to insure that you will be as," the wizard's voice paused in malicious glee, "comfortable as possible."

Snuffling in terrifying excitement, the orcs on either side of Legolas drew him to a halt before great black doors,. Saruman smirked – Legolas cringed inwardly at the ugly sneer – and waved his wrist, flinging the doors open.

"Take him in here."

Solid black stone seemed overbear across Legolas's shoulders. Cold that was not from temperature alone permeated his muscles and burned his lungs. Legolas had meant to show no fear – he had meant to hold his head high and spit in Saruman's face as death came to carry him to the eternal rest of the elves – but elemental terror gripped him severely at the wickedness pouring from that room.

The ethereal realm passed before him: black smoke roiling around the smooth, black marble floors, and the thick, squelching scent of death.

His feet seemed to be bound to the floor, a few steps from the doorway. The orcs tugged at his chains – but he would not move. He _could not_ move. Time and feelings slipped around him and Legolas held his breath.

Vaguely – underwater, in a dream – he saw another orc join the struggle to pull him into the darkness.

"No," he murmured. And then his feet began to slip across the tiles, the doors growing taller, the stench growing stronger, the smoke growing thicker. "No!" he shouted, tugging on his chains and planting his feet. He wrenched to one side, and his chains slipped from the orcs's grasps.

Encumbered by the chains but empowered by fear, he turned and ran.

Stark fear overwhelmed any shred of rationality – there was no escape plan, no thought for the next moment. There was just a desperate desire to_not enter that room_. His chains clanked and the torches blurred before his eyes just before a tremendous force – incorporeal but powerful – plowed into his back, throwing him against the wall.

Cold stone knocked against the back of his head and he slumped to the floor. Shivering seized his muscles as the freezing tile pressed against his skin. He rolled, landing on his stomach, and tried to rise.

A gigantic weight was against his back, pressing him to the floor and driving the air from his lungs. He turned his face to the side and saw the length of his blond hair spread out starkly against the black tile. His mouth was dry and cold; he could not breathe – only gasp hysterically as the weight grew more and more oppressive. The air was hot and still, as if the wind had been smothered by the evil just as it was now smothering him.

All he could see was darkness, shimmering marble and clinging evil. His chained arms were sprawled out inelegantly from his body and his legs were twisted awkwardly together in their bindings. His ribcage smacked against the floor with every heaving breath – and the white bottom of Saruman's cape wavered across his dimming vision.

He moaned under his breath as he was lifted into the air with no hands – set upright by merely the power of the wizard's thought. He was drifted toward the dreaded room. All strength had been swept from his limbs like errant dust and Legolas was left unable to even lift his head from his chest.

_If I close my eyes – I will not see the smoke – not see the cold wickedness reaching for my soul_.

He closed his eyes.

The incorporeal hands released him and he tumbled to the ground, chains clanking as he sprawled bonelessly on the cold floor. The doors banged shut and Legolas fought madly to breathe in some semblance of his regular rhythm.

"I know," the wizard said, deep voice echoing around and _inside_ of Legolas's head. "I know that you have kept the bond between you and the boy shielded. You wish him to believe you to be dead. You do not want him to stage some foolish rescue attempt and fall into my clutches. We cannot have that."

Legolas moved his head weakly against the floor, mind gibbering as he tried to defend that soft warmth of Estel's bond. Perhaps he could cut it before Saruman…

"Last time, you sliced your bond rather than allow the Nazgúl access to your precious child. The bond was rebuilt – oh, yes, I have seen it all. Perhaps," the wizard said and Legolas felt terror in his heart at the faintly mocking tone. "Perhaps I have seen the circumstances even more clearly than you.

"The new bond is much stronger than the old. While the other could be broken by the strong mental power of one elf, this bond cannot be. You may mask it, block it – but only death will break this bond."

Legolas knew he should be panicked – but there was no air in his chest and he could not think beyond the desperate need for oxygen.

"I believe," Saruman murmured almost absentmindedly, "that we should open the bond, mhm? We should show your Estel – your Hope – what he is missing."

Air rushed through Legolas's lungs just as harsh fingers dove into his mind without any preamble. He screamed, wasting precious air, as the pain shot through his head. His limbs stiffened and his head banged against the dark floor. Conscious thought was fleeting as he writhed under the wizard's immense pressure on his mind.

His world was black agony and searing cold. His head knocked repeatedly against the floor as he instinctively tried to flee the pain. Tightness across his face alerted him that his mouth was gaping wide open, teeth bared desperately, as he tried to ride out the intense hurt shooting out from the center of his head.

Something gave way deep inside of his mind and the shields and shrouds he had set about the bond tumbled into nonexistence. Estel's presence flooded his mind, the bright conscious eagerly reaching for his own.

He cried out, begging wordlessly for Estel to _not do this_.

The young man seemed to cringe back from the overwhelming suffering – but then returned with more strength, trying to assuage and heal the agony and begging to understand why Legolas was hurting.

_I will come for you_, Estel said. _Do not fear – just stay alive for me, Legolas. I love you._

And Legolas moaned once more before slipping into unconsciousness.

* * *

Elladan heard the commotion outside his room and imagined it was Legolas. The wooziness of sleep still blanketed his mind, churning out half-formed thoughts and illogical conclusions.

"Legolas," he rasped, voice wheezy and high. He rolled to his side, but could move no further. He could see the flash of darkly colored robes and hear the worried voices. He pressed his hand to the mattress and heaved his head from the pillow, gasping and staring. "Ada!"

Trembles seized him again and his elbow weakened. Why had he called out? He moaned, flopping to his back. If Legolas was dead, then it would be better to postpone the news – to imagine that Legolas was alive.

No one appeared in the doorway so he shut his eyes and conjured the image of Legolas in the forest – beautiful, whole, alive, vitally happy. Elladan's face stretched as he smiled. Yes, Legolas with the trees behind him and the sky above. Legolas with breath in his lungs and his face unmarred.

"Elladan?"

Ada's voice threw him from the idyllic image and another Legolas superimposed itself on his eyelids – Legolas lying on the white healer's bed – beautiful, broken, cold, devoid of spirit. Elladan turned his face toward Ada but did not open his eyes. Yes, Legolas with the white shroud tucked up to his chin and hair combed neatly over the pillow. Legolas with vacant eyes and his face twisted in the last throes of death.

"Yes, Ada?"

"Estel collapsed in the courtyard. We did not find Legolas." Ada stared frankly at him and the mental images vanished under the serene, calming gaze. "Rest now. Estel is not awake yet."

"Why," Elladan's throat was dry and he cleared it hoarsely. "Why did he… collapse, you said?"

"Yes, he vomited and seemed to fall into a faint. He spoke of Legolas briefly." Ada turned his face away and sighed. "Elladan… no matter what Estel may say, do not allow your spirits to rise. It is highly unlikely that Saruman would leave Legolas alive for any extended period."

Elladan swallowed and jumped a little when a commotion suddenly arose from the next room.

Ada glanced over his shoulder, brow furrowing. "He is awake," he told Elladan shortly and hurried away from Elladan's line of sight.

The elf struggled briefly to sit up in the bed, straining to see past the barrier of the wall. He could hear Estel's frantic words and the soothing healers as they tried to lay him back in the bed. Estel said something loudly and then cried out in pain.

Elladan jumped as if the pain had been in his own, muscles at last cooperating as he pushed himself against the headboard. "Do not hurt him." He had sworn that he would protect Estel and now…

The noises from the other room stilled and a moment later Estel appeared in the doorway, pale and drawn with trembling hands. Waning sunlight highlighted the imperfect ridges across his face, bathing his firm mouth in shadows. His eyes, despite the weariness of his frame, were bright and excited.

"I heard him." He stumbled across the room, falling to his knees beside the bed. His shaking fingers twined themselves with Elladan's and tears seemed imminent. "In my mind – across the bond – he is alive."

"Alive…" Elladan murmured. He turned his face against the pillow, staring into the sun until his eyes watered and his skin felt dry and papery. "Alive…" The word sunk deep into his core and he whipped his head around, staring at the red flush on the white cheeks. "Is this for certain? Is he well?"

The mortal face crumpled and the gray eyes watered. "He is with Saruman – he is in pain." Estel jumped to his feet, dragging his hand through the tangled mat of his hair. "We must save him." Ada stood in the doorway and Estel rounded on him, hands outstretched and eyes flickering everywhere. "We cannot leave him in Saruman's hands – you must understand that."

Elladan looked at Ada's face and knew the answer before it was spoken – knew that such a venture against Isenguard would only lead to more deaths – knew that it would be a grave tactical error to set the might of the elves against an impenetrable fortress in the hopes of saving one elf. But he still flinched when Ada's quiet words cut into Estel's harsh breathing.

"We cannot go against Saruman yet."

Estel froze, shoulders heaving and mouth opened – he seemed for a moment unable to suck in air. He turned to look at Elladan with red and puffy eyes, lips trembling. "What?" he asked, voice high and strained to its limit. "We cannot?"

"We cannot. The cost of lives and time to attempt such a venture is not practical. We must wait until the time is right."

"Legolas will die!"

"Legolas would understand the necessity of sacrifice to preserve an entire generation. If we go against Saruman now when we are not fully prepared, we will fail and condemn all of Middle-earth into darkness. You do see that?"

Elladan could not breathe. His chest was tight and his eyes were blurry. Estel was a smear of dark colors against the white cleanliness of the walls and Ada's burgundy robes. He slipped down, staring at the ceiling as their voices flowed over him, around him. The practicality of Ada's words rang true in his mind – but all his heart knew was that Legolas – beautiful, gentle, endearing Legolas – was being condemned to horrible death by their inaction.

With a tremendous effort that drained him to cracking dust, he sat up and fixed his eyes on the dark face of Estel.

His mouth was twisted – half agonized and half enraged – and the flash of his white teeth caught the light. The brown skin on his forehead was drawn upward and the lines of his neck were drawn out like wooden planks. Elladan must have made some noise because the boy (the man) turned and stared in helpless confusion at him. The grays were dulling brightness, asking questions that could not be answered. Silent words passed between them – though Elladan did not know what was said – and Estel closed his eyes and the black lashes dampened.

Elladan's strength was no more and he returned to his pillow, tongue drying as he gasped in air. Why was he so weak? He closed his eyes and felt as if he had fallen into a deep river. The water was rushing in blue ribbons over his spine and forehead, seeping into his mouth and ears. All he could hear was the water and he let the current carry him toward the low lands. Then a wave crested beneath his spine, shoving him upward into the bitter tasting air.

Estel was shouting, voice angst filled and cracking. His head wavered in and out of Elladan's fixed eyes – a dim phantom wisping in the dark clouds of some rain storm. Ada was soothing, resolute and fixed.

Random snippets of words flickered to Elladan's tongue and then slid back into the realm of thought. He wanted to accuse Ada of never liking Legolas – of being glad that Legolas was lost to them. But Ada had loved Legolas as his own son. He wanted to scream that they could storm Isengaurd – that good would prevail in the face of Saruman's wickedness. But he knew that the elven armies would be crushed if they came upon Saruman in his own lair.

There was no recourse – no reasoned defense to state – no alternate plan. Elladan felt his lungs shrivel, air thin and bright around his face. The dark truth came in dark clouds, covering the sun.

"Estel," he said, imaging that by touching the mortal man, he could feel the spirit of Legolas.

The shouting ceased and dry hands were laid upon his face. But he could not open his eyes to look. He sighed with tremors and pressed his fingers against his closed eyes. Bright red painted the darkness before him – burgundy, yellow, green, blue. He watched the spots spin and dance, disappearing into a vortex.

* * *

Legolas sat in the darkness of the room, back against the wall and hands clenched beneath his knees. Endless litanies ran through his mind, repetitions that he could focus his dimming consciousness on. He needed _lived for_ those mindless recitations. If he did not focus his thoughts upon them, he would remember what had happened – and where he was.

The thought came unbidden and he moaned deep within his throat as his eyes refocused on the dark wall inches from his face. An involuntary shudder gripped his body and his hands slid from his knees. Cool stone touched the backs of his fingers and the blackness reared within Legolas as he was forced to cope with reality.

He was in a casket – a coffin – a box. Something small and dark with walls on either side and no way to escape – place of nightmares where the only certainty was the continuing fear squeezing his throat from the inside.

As the terror cascaded, his feet lashed outward in a desperate and ill-conceived attempt to break through the stone walls. His toes throbbed even as his neck jerked backwards, head thumping against the wall behind. Pain sent star bursts through his vision, stole his breath and muddled his thoughts.

And then, reality slipped again and Legolas went back to flowered fields and warm breezes – faraway from where his body huddled in the cramped box and pain still spat across his muscles.

He was rarely lucid – a fact he was extremely grateful of in the scarce moments his mind did clear. His thoughts drifted somewhere between the sun and sea – the moonbeams on trees and the starlight on rivers.

Occasionally, Estel's face replaced the sun and Legolas would smile and be happy. He was in Saruman's clutches – he would remind himself, an absent, half-mad smile on his face – not the child of his heart. Estel was safe in Rivendell. Safe. Safe. Safe.

And the mantra went on, a quiet, croaking whisper that no ears would ever hear. He whispered the word until his mouth dried and his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth. His thoughts returned to the darkened room but all strength had been sapped. Legolas did not fight the oppressive darkness this time.

No. He closed his eyes and laid his head against the stone. His mind felt free – cut from the tethers of his weakening, hyper-extended body. Legolas felt as if he were watching himself from afar as the hours in the box turned into days, for elves could go much longer without food or water than humans. Legolas watched himself grow paler, thinner, quieter, and increasingly vacant as the time slid by.

Then, at last – only scarce moments before Legolas was sure that his mind would slip fully free of the corporeal realm – the lid opened and rough hands dragged him, panting and cringing in terror, into the gray darkness of Saruman's presence.

**To be continued.**


	28. Where'd You Go

**Disclaimer: **I own none of the recognizable characters in this story—they all belong to JRR Tolkien and New Line.

**Wherever the Surge May Sweep**

**By Jame K. **

_**Chapter Twenty-Seven: You've Been Gone**_

_Where'd you go?  
I miss you so  
Seems like it's been forever since you've been gone  
Please come back home.  
- Fort Minor_

Estel slept in jolts and fits over the next four days. He was pale, withdrawn, and painfully quiet as the days rolled by. He hardly ate, eyes turned inward – always probing at the bond that he shared with his mentor. He was seeking another sign, seeking a breath of hope that Legolas still lived and fought.

On the eve of the fifth day – six days since Legolas had been taken by Saruman – Estel sat upon the narrow lip of his chair, gazing fixedly at the shadowy trees. In one instant, his mind felt dull and blank.

And, then, chaos.

His mind seemed to split into a thousand panicked, desperate shards. Legolas was there – so real that Estel could almost see him – huddled in darkness, his eyes vacant, spirit slowly drifting away. He could feel the pain of the wounds decorating the elf's slim, strong body – the dying soul struggling to find a shred of hope.

Estel cried out, falling from the chair and reaching. But, then, the image was snatched away. Sight was stolen and all that existed was darkness and a booming voice that echoed painfully against the innards of his ears.

"_Aragorn, son of Arathorn, your mentor is dying."_

A wordless cry was torn from Estel's throat and he was dimly aware of the door being flung open. Elrond was here – but he forced himself to focus on the increasingly overwhelming voice.

"_He will die. But you can save him. Come to Isengard and I will free him. Stay in your cowardly safety, and he will become a sniveling, pained, unthinking animal before he dies. Come, son Arathorn – I will await you."_

Estel thrashed briefly as strong hands lifted him to the bed. And then, cold, brutal energy swamped him and his limbs jerked and muscles strained. Voices rose and squabbled above him and cool, firm fingers forced his jaw open, placing something in between his teeth. The next spasm locked his jaw and he bit down hard on the smooth something.

He cried out, the chords on his neck strained and pulling against his jaw line. The pain was building in his head, pressing against his ears and forehead. He imagined himself exploding, bursting outward.

A moment later, the pain was gone. As suddenly as it came, the agony seemed to wash from his body, leaving him choking and gasping. He flopped helplessly on the bed as a cool cloth was wiped across his forehead and the stick was removed from between his teeth.

For a long time, he seemed to dwell in darkness. He could feel his body being undressed and tucked under the covers – he could hear voices calling his name.

When he opened his eyes, Elrond's face was there, white and concerned. "We were afraid," he said after a moment, eyes dropping away, "that Legolas had passed and you were following."

"He is still alive," Estel whispered, throat raw. "Though I do not imagine he will remain that way long. He is in pain."

Elrond nodded and placed one hand on the bed, inches from Estel's thigh. "Preparations need to be made for when Legolas does pass. If you would permit me, I can enter your mind and place a protective barrier around the bond. It would keep you from most of the pain…"

Estel almost surged off the bed, anger thrumming through him, to scream his denial at the elven lord. But, at the last moment, he simply closed his eyes and breathed. "Please – leave me be. I will be with Legolas to the end – I will feel every moment of pain. And if it is my lot is to travel with him to the next world, I shall gladly." He turned his face in the direction of the light and fell still, hoping Elrond would leave him alone in his misery.

However, Elrond lingered there for several moments, quiet and pensive; and Estel could almost feel the heavy, dark thoughts clouding the elf's mind. At last, he stood and left the room.

When the door closed, Estel lay still for a long time, thoughts drifting ceaselessly as the pressure of sadness beat against his forehead. His mouth felt dry and painful, eyes burning with no tears.

He rose at last, feet curling against the smooth floor, and walked toward the door. He was wearing a long nightshirt and the smooth, soft fabric brushed against his knees. He stopped halfway to the door and stood quiet and still, staring at the mussed bed that he had shared with Arwen.

One hand drifted to his neck and only when he discovered the Ring missing did he realize he had been looking for it. His lungs deflated and did not fill as his head turned frantically.

Elrond! He had known the elf lord was insistent on his hatred of the Ring – but to take it while Estel slept? He rushed to the large wardrobe and dressed hurriedly in hardy clothes, eyes still canvassing the room.

He buckled the thick sword about his waist and was about to charge out the door in search of the trinket when a glint of gold from the bedside snatched his attention. He spun and almost fell to his knees.

The Ring stared at him, haunting and tempting like a woodland nymph. It was beautiful and Estel felt his heart burn and stomach twist.

_I can help you_, the Ring whispered. _I can find your Precious Legolas and he will be safe – but you must take Me with you._

Estel took a deep breath and felt the insides of his mouth twitch. He lunged and grabbed the bit of gold, clenching it in his fist until his nails imprinted into his palm.

**The end of Book I.**

** Author's Note: **I hope you have enjoyed this tale... honestly, I was not sure if I would ever even share this story in its fullness with anyone. It became more than just a piece of fanfiction, it truly was a labor of love - something that I loved even after I drifted away from the fandom. Though I can say, the other two books will be completed though I dare not set a time. This one took me almost two years. But, like I said, I've loved this story. And I would love to hear all of your thoughts on the different characters, plot lines, or just whatever.

I had started to write more notes on each character, my feelings on plot, etc. But it was getting to lengthy. For anyone who cares, I will post an additional chapter with my thoughts on these characters, the plot, themes and anything else I wish to blab about.

Until next time!


	29. Ending Author's Notes

**Wherever the Surge May Sweep**

**By Jame K. **

_The Author's Notes:_

**Plot:**

A couple people have asked what specifically made Middle-Earth so much darker in this story. The simple answer is that Greenwood fell completely. There was no last bastion against the darkness. And, its destruction caused a heightened paranoia among the other elves. The devastation of Greenwood meant that no one was safe – and meant that there was (1) more concern about the future (2) an increased fear of the "darkness" and (3) a strong pessimistic tendency in regards to relations with other species.

I had a rough outline of what I wanted to happen when I started this story and I stuck closely to it - until I got about a third away through and realized I had written 120,000+ words. That's when I decided to do three books. The first book is all about Estel growing and the metaphorical chess board of Middle-Earth being set up.

I made the decision early on to gloss over much of his childhood, touching on the important parts. There was so much I could've said about his growth (so many little scenes that were cut long ago), but I realized that much of that was unimportant - that what made Estel could be summed up with fewer stories and I could spend more time on what mattered.

Much of the plot involving the other Men of Middle-Earth was cut in the end as well. In the original, Theodred and Denethor have more scenes - developing stories of their own. Unfortunately, it was just getting too mammoth and I was struggling to make their stories intersect meaningfully with those of the other characters. I hope to address them in more depth in the following books.

**Themes:**

The most important theme in this story is _destiny_. Is it real? Can anyone change their own destiny? Or is every action predetermined by some greater power? Is destiny given to some and not others? How does the belief in destiny affect short and long run decisions that people make?

Throughout the writing of this, I constantly had to remind myself of the individual character's ideas about destiny, and then put their actions in perspective with that. For Legolas especially, everything he did was in line with this greater purpose he felt he had - nothing he did was wasted on his own pursuits.

**Characters:**

_Legolas:_ This story is about Legolas, first and foremost, it's about him and this decision and this calling he believes he has. And, while I obviously love him, there were several moments when writing this that I very much disliked him. He is so obsessed with this destiny that he believes he has, to the exclusion of everything else. Which is why I love the relationship between him and Elladan. Elladan loves Legolas (has for awhile) but Legolas is so consumed by this mission he's set out for himself, that he can't even notice. Book II, in a way, will be Legolas's redemption in that regard. He will be forced to confront himself outside of his "destiny" - a world where he's not needed and, in a way, powerless. Book III will be the completion of his arc, where his "call" to destiny collides with this new Legolas that has hopes and dreams outside of just being an instrument of the Valar.

_Estel:_ Estel is an interesting character – and he's grown for me tremendously while writing this story. Originally, the plan was to have the elves simply be wrong, have him become the good man that Legolas hoped for – but I realized the issues were becoming much deeper than that. He grew up with a very narrow view point – and a distrust of the elves in general. When confronted with power, he had this weight hanging over him that everyone expected him to fail. That expectation of failure, I think, affected him deeply. Book II will really be about his exploration of his dark side – what he will do to not only save Legolas, but how his actions will affect him - and if he will be able to stop what becomes an avalanche of events. Book III (without giving too much away) is about him coming to grips with himself, good or bad, and finding his place in Middle-Earth.

_The Elves_: Elrond and Galadriel believed they were doing the right thing. I think that was one of the most important elements in this story. They weren't evil and they didn't want to hurt Legolas. But they were also pragmatic. One life for the lives of many? That was a price they were willing to pay.

_Elladan:_ So believe it or not, Elladan wasn't supposed to fall in love with Legolas when I began this story. But he was always worrying about him so finally, I just let him. Elladan is a foil for Legolas throughout this story – obeying his father, enjoying life, being calm, not seeing the appeal of destiny (but understanding it is there). His unwillingness to commit to any "mission" (except that he will follow Legolas's lead) is what makes him so interesting in Book I. In Book II, he manages to find his purpose, his part in the grand scheme. And he falls into the role so naturally, it's surprising. And it definitely explores his relationship with Legolas to a much greater extent. Book III is all about him realizing that love can't change the world, letting things go and using taking a stand for what he knows is right.

_Arwen:_ Arwen, I believe, has changed very little from her role in the original books. She is strong and determined – and she is a firm believer in destiny. In the books, she knew she would never cross the Sea because of her dreams. In this story, she knows she will for the same reason. Does she love Estel? Yes – but she also understands that it will never last – that they weren't meant to be together _this time_. Book II is about her struggle to fulfill this part she knows she was meant to play - and then having to let go of Middle-Earth and leave it in someone else's hands.

**What is to Come:**

_Book II:_ As I've touched on briefly, Book II is definitely the darkest one of the three. It's when the characters reach their lows – and some become stronger because of that, and others fall apart. It's about being powerless – and having the strength to not fall apart while the world does. And, it's about hope. Hope that there is going to be a better tomorrow. The book opens about three months after the conclusion of Book I.

A quick snippet:

_It was Elladan who built the home. Snow was coming, the heat of summer quickly turning icy with winds and rain. Legolas came with Arwen the day after it was done. He was pale and the heartsickness was written over his face. He leaned on Elladan like he had done at the funeral - trembling like a thin tree in the storm. When Elladan held his hand, led him into the home, his fingers were icy and the bones pushed sharply against the skin._

_He went to bed willingly enough and Elladan sat beside him, hands tucked behind his knees and knives just paces away.  
_

_Arwen smiled at him, like she understood, hands over her growing belly and eyes drifting toward the West. _

_None of them spoke until night fell and the door was bolted. The air was strangely quiet, even as the winds came up between the mountain canyons. All of Middle-Earth was waiting._

_Legolas had not yet spoken of Estel - anything really. He had been silent since the day they found before the Rivendell gates. Eyes focused on the world but unable to speak to it, his thoughts on Estel without ceasing. Elladan did not know which hurt more - the thought of the young man dead - or the nightmare of him alive. _

_Book III:_ This one is about renewals, losses, and farewells. I can't say much without giving things away – but this one is definitely a story about forgiveness and closure. The characters will be able to look back and see how far they've come – and make decisions based off of that.

* * *

Well, that was way too long. But, if you stuck with me, let me know your thoughts. It would be amazing! 


End file.
